Dr Pangloss idly sucked the end of his pencil and stared out of the window, searching for inspiration. He was trying to write his next 'Best of All Possible Worlds' column for the Westphalia Express, and he wanted this one to carry a little extra punch, seeing as it would be his first column of 2008, but the words just didn't seem to come. Well, it wasn't that the words wouldn't come exactly, it was just that when they did they didn't seem to be related by any obvious logic.
First there was the ongoing story about the town centre. One day he said the town was going to rack and ruin, filled with discount stores, then he said it would all be fantastic because it would soon be a thriving city. Then he said the discount stores were a good thing, because he imagined if you were a nasty local chav family with loads of screaming snotty-nosed kids you would have to get everything from Poundland anyway, and how did anyone expect the town centre to improve if the local economy was a mess? And then there were the buses. They were good because they were full of shoppers, but they were bad because they nearly ran people over on a daily basis. Of course the people who nearly got run over were usually chavs, children, hen parties or pensioners, and none of these were in the high-spending bracket that Pangloss wanted in his new city, so maybe it wouldn't be a bad thing if there was a bit of 'natural wastage'.
It wasn't Pangloss's fault that the road actually looked like a pedestrianised area, or that the fat chavs were too busy staring at shop windows full of pies and pasties to notice a bloody great bus heading towards them. Anyway, he wasn't going to waste good money just to make the road look like a road and the pavement look like a pavement when just around the corner most of the seafront was almost derelict.
On reflection Pangloss thought it best not to mention the town centre for a while. Or the seafront. No, people wanted to read about upbeat things, like rubbing shoulders with celebrities once Pierre de Saveloy had built his mini-resort, and climate change had transformed the pebbly cove into a long stretch of white Caribbean sand just like the consultants said it would. Well, maybe not rubbing shoulders exactly, but perhaps catching a glimpse through the telescope at the top of the cliff. He made a note to include that in his column.
Now what about the parking meters? They hadn't exactly been welcomed with open arms by the usual miserable letter-writers and phone-in callers. Pangloss thought it a bit rich - they would be a marvellous symbol of progress, after all. When Brunel came to the south-west with his hare-brained railway schemes people started putting up statues in his likeness and naming roads after him. Now when Dr Pangloss suggested a modern metal monument around the bay's roads to bring in some much-needed revenue no-one seemed very enthusiastic. Still, he wouldn't be put off by the fact that pretty much every Westphalian was against the idea - he had been elected by about 7% of the people, and if the other 93% didn't like the parking meter idea it was tough luck - that was democracy. Pangloss wrote 'Parking meters?' because he wasn't sure if it was a good idea to mention them. Maybe he would point out it was one of those difficult decisions that brave leaders had to take once in a while, a bit like Churchill planning D-Day, or Bomber Harris sending the RAF boys off to Dresden.
Pangloss looked down at the page in front of him, which was still mostly blank. His heart just didn't seem to be in it anymore. He had spun so many stories from so many angles he hardly knew what to believe himself anymore. He was beginning to wonder if spending £740,000 on consultants in the last twelve months had been wise. And what if he spent that kind of money in the next twelve months? Would he still be popular with the Westphalians? Would they start shouting 'STOP WASTING OUR MONEY ON CONSULTANTS'? Oh no, he thought, I mustn't think like that, self-doubt is my enemy, I must maintain a positive mental attitude. After all, whatever happens, I'm safe here in my bunker with my fat mayoral salary, and if I need to pop down to Oxfam for a second-hand book I can do it in the mayoral limo, and I won't even have to pay to park. This thought put a smile on his face. He screwed the almost blank sheet of paper into a ball and threw if for his cat to play with. As Chairman Miaow chased the paper ball between the legs of the table Pangloss said to himself: 'Sod it. That column can wait -let's have drink; it is New Year's Eve after all, and whatever happens in 2008 I'm sure I will still be laughing at the end of it.'
Dear Readers ...
as Westphalia-on-Sea's economy slowly spirals down the toilet it has become necessary for some of the blog's editorial team to fake their own deaths so that insurance claims can be made, etc. For this reason it has been deemed wise to cease all blog activities until some time after Christmas.
We sincerely hope that this will not spoil your enjoyment of the festive period.
We sincerely hope that this will not spoil your enjoyment of the festive period.
Chapter 34 In which we are given a glimpse of the future
It was a bright warm day in April, and the clocks were striking thirteen. Pierre de Saveloy, his hand held up to his forehead in an effort to shield his face from the fierce heat of the sun's rays, slipped quickly through the smoked glass doors of Victory Mansions, though not quickly enough to prevent a Polish chambermaid entering along with him.
The hallway smelt of coconut oil and beach mats. At one end of it a coloured poster, too large for an indoor display had been tacked to the wall. It depicted simply an enormous face, more than a metre wide: the face of a man of about forty-seven, with gold-rimmed spectacles and ruggedly handsome features.
Mr de Saveloy entered the glass lift, which silently and effortlessly transported him towards his penthouse office suite. On each landing opposite the lift-shaft, the poster with the enormous face gazed from the wall. It was one of those pictures which are so contrived that the eyes follow you about when you move. DR PANGLOSS MADE ALL THIS POSSIBLE, the caption beneath it ran.
Looking out of the smoked glass window he spent a few idle minutes watching the activity on the number of luxury yachts which were moored in the bay. On the largest boat he could just make out Mr Abramovich, who still looked good for his fifty-nine years. On a slightly smaller vessel the elderly Richard Branson appeared to be tucking into a hearty breakfast. He wasn't sure who owned the third boat, but the three semi-naked women on board were already attracting the attention of the paparazzi, who were pointing telephoto lenses at them from their vantage point high on the cliffs above. It was a laborious job hanging around in the bushes all day, but the money they could get from the tabloids for one good snap of a celebrity would be enough to pay for a couple of days' parking on the meters which ran along the clifftop, so it was well worth the inconvenience. Just then Victoria Beckham came into view on the sun terrace. Pierre de Saveloy opened the French window onto the terrace and went outside to greet her.
'Good morning,' he shouted. 'All ready for the big event?'
'We're getting there,' replied Victoria. 'Everything will be ready for the second of May. This will be the biggest fiftieth birthday party ever - David is really looking forward to it.'
'Well, I'm just glad that you chose to celebrate it here,' replied de Saveloy.
'Oh, we wouldn't go anywhere else. To tell you the truth, Dubai and the Maldives have had their day, and of course all the chic Mediterranean resorts are just too hot now.'
'Yes, well, we were lucky enough to have consultants tell us that eighteen years ago. Of course, the usual naysayers said they were talking out of their arse and just padding out a lame presentation with a lot of scientific claptrap, but those High Priests and Priestesses of Negativity have all been proved wrong.'
'Oh, don't you just hate negative people?' said Victoria. 'I had exactly the same experience with people saying I was utterly talentless and couldn't sing, but I showed them.'
With that a siren began wailing.
'What's that?' asked Victoria.
'Oh, probably some pleb has got lost and wandered up to the entrance,' said de Saveloy. 'Nothing to worry about.'
'Oh, right. Well, I'd better be going, because we're off down to that new casino again today. It's absolutely fantastic - have you been?'
'Of course I have; it's the jewel in the crown, what wealthy people come to Westphalia-on-Sea for.'
Down at the heavily guarded entrance a man had indeed tried to gain access to the complex.
'What do you want?' asked one of the security guards in a gruff voice.
'I just wanted to come in and have a drink and have a look round. I heard this was the place where that murder happened; you know, the man they couldn't hang.'
'How did you get here?'
'I walked down the path.'
'Hmm, I'm not sure that's allowed. We're really only open to people who arrive in yachts or very expensive cars. I'll have to radio through for clearance.'
After a short conversation on his walkie-talkie the security guard waved the man through, with the words 'OK one drink, and my colleague will escort you to make sure you keep to the designated areas.'
As they walked into the complex the man said 'My grandmother told me the story. Apparently this place used to be really picturesque, with trees and stuff.'
'Yeah, well that's was then and this is now,' said the guard. 'If people had wanted picturesque or quaint they would have said so a long time ago when all this was at the planning stage. Anyway, trees are just a bloody nuisance. Look at it now - concrete, tarmac, and everything nice and new. And look at the people - no riff-raff, as it should be. You want to stop thinking about how things were in the past and start living in the present; and the future.'
The man went up to the bar and ordered a coffee and a muffin. The barman placed it in front of him, and in heavily accented English said: 'Zat vill be nineteen eighty-four. No vait, I make mistake - tventy tventy-five.'
The hallway smelt of coconut oil and beach mats. At one end of it a coloured poster, too large for an indoor display had been tacked to the wall. It depicted simply an enormous face, more than a metre wide: the face of a man of about forty-seven, with gold-rimmed spectacles and ruggedly handsome features.
Mr de Saveloy entered the glass lift, which silently and effortlessly transported him towards his penthouse office suite. On each landing opposite the lift-shaft, the poster with the enormous face gazed from the wall. It was one of those pictures which are so contrived that the eyes follow you about when you move. DR PANGLOSS MADE ALL THIS POSSIBLE, the caption beneath it ran.
Looking out of the smoked glass window he spent a few idle minutes watching the activity on the number of luxury yachts which were moored in the bay. On the largest boat he could just make out Mr Abramovich, who still looked good for his fifty-nine years. On a slightly smaller vessel the elderly Richard Branson appeared to be tucking into a hearty breakfast. He wasn't sure who owned the third boat, but the three semi-naked women on board were already attracting the attention of the paparazzi, who were pointing telephoto lenses at them from their vantage point high on the cliffs above. It was a laborious job hanging around in the bushes all day, but the money they could get from the tabloids for one good snap of a celebrity would be enough to pay for a couple of days' parking on the meters which ran along the clifftop, so it was well worth the inconvenience. Just then Victoria Beckham came into view on the sun terrace. Pierre de Saveloy opened the French window onto the terrace and went outside to greet her.
'Good morning,' he shouted. 'All ready for the big event?'
'We're getting there,' replied Victoria. 'Everything will be ready for the second of May. This will be the biggest fiftieth birthday party ever - David is really looking forward to it.'
'Well, I'm just glad that you chose to celebrate it here,' replied de Saveloy.
'Oh, we wouldn't go anywhere else. To tell you the truth, Dubai and the Maldives have had their day, and of course all the chic Mediterranean resorts are just too hot now.'
'Yes, well, we were lucky enough to have consultants tell us that eighteen years ago. Of course, the usual naysayers said they were talking out of their arse and just padding out a lame presentation with a lot of scientific claptrap, but those High Priests and Priestesses of Negativity have all been proved wrong.'
'Oh, don't you just hate negative people?' said Victoria. 'I had exactly the same experience with people saying I was utterly talentless and couldn't sing, but I showed them.'
With that a siren began wailing.
'What's that?' asked Victoria.
'Oh, probably some pleb has got lost and wandered up to the entrance,' said de Saveloy. 'Nothing to worry about.'
'Oh, right. Well, I'd better be going, because we're off down to that new casino again today. It's absolutely fantastic - have you been?'
'Of course I have; it's the jewel in the crown, what wealthy people come to Westphalia-on-Sea for.'
Down at the heavily guarded entrance a man had indeed tried to gain access to the complex.
'What do you want?' asked one of the security guards in a gruff voice.
'I just wanted to come in and have a drink and have a look round. I heard this was the place where that murder happened; you know, the man they couldn't hang.'
'How did you get here?'
'I walked down the path.'
'Hmm, I'm not sure that's allowed. We're really only open to people who arrive in yachts or very expensive cars. I'll have to radio through for clearance.'
After a short conversation on his walkie-talkie the security guard waved the man through, with the words 'OK one drink, and my colleague will escort you to make sure you keep to the designated areas.'
As they walked into the complex the man said 'My grandmother told me the story. Apparently this place used to be really picturesque, with trees and stuff.'
'Yeah, well that's was then and this is now,' said the guard. 'If people had wanted picturesque or quaint they would have said so a long time ago when all this was at the planning stage. Anyway, trees are just a bloody nuisance. Look at it now - concrete, tarmac, and everything nice and new. And look at the people - no riff-raff, as it should be. You want to stop thinking about how things were in the past and start living in the present; and the future.'
The man went up to the bar and ordered a coffee and a muffin. The barman placed it in front of him, and in heavily accented English said: 'Zat vill be nineteen eighty-four. No vait, I make mistake - tventy tventy-five.'
Chapter 33 In which Pangloss accidentally speaks to some locals
Down at theTown Hall in Westphalia-on-Sea Dr Pangloss was in buoyant mood as he was expecting representatives from yet another firm of consultants.
'They're on their way up,' he said to his trusty deputy, Ahmad Hatter. 'Open the door and show them in.'
Hatter opened the door and ushered in the man and woman who were approaching.
'Sit down, sit down,' urged Pangloss. 'I'm in a bit of a hurry, so let's make this quick. I've got to go and look at Christmas fairy lights on people's houses in a minute. Now, what do you think we should do to regenerate the town centre?'
'Er, drastically lower the business rates to kick start things, and put in some public toilets at the Hold-on Centre?' said the man on the left.
'Brilliant! You people really have got your finger on the pulse, haven't you? Now what do you think of my plans for a new business park out at Edgycombe Lane?'
This time the woman on the right spoke: 'Not much - I think it will just be another sprawl eating into the green belt which will take more business away from the already deserted town centre.'
'Blimey, I hadn't thought of it like that - maybe we'll have a rethink on that one. You guys are razor sharp today. I'd better write this down. OK, one last question - how do we start bringing in more tourists?'
'Start with some market research,' they said, almost in harmony.
'Hmm, market research, said Pangloss. I've heard of that. Just remind me, what is it exactly?'
'You know, asking people who holiday in the UK what they look for in a destination, that sort of thing. So you can make some sensible decisions instead of just saying the first daft thing that comes into your head.'
'Yes, yes, of course,' said Pangloss. 'It's all coming back to me now.' On the notepad in front of him he wrote in capitals 'DON'T SAY THE FIRST DAFT THING THAT COMES INTO YOUR HEAD'. 'Well, I suppose you people want paying. Well, I know you've only been here five minutes but that advice has been priceless. Hatter! Get the chequebook. Now what was it, fifty grand?'
'Fifty grand? said the man on the left. 'What for?'
'Your consultancy fee, of course.'
'We're not consultants,' said the man.
'Well who the bloody hell are you then?'
'Well, nobody really. We just came in to pay our council tax. We're just two ordinary locals. I'm Jack Muttock, and this is Irene Dalloway.'
'Local, eh? I wondered why you were speaking in that strange way,' said Pangloss.
'Yes, sir, local sir, not loike you.'
'Oh, I'm a local as well,' said Pangloss.
'Really? Well, you don't talk loike us, do 'ee?'
'No, I went away to school - to avoid people like you, and your strange vowels. Anyway, I'd love you to stay and chat, but you're obviously in the wrong place. Hang on though; if you're not consultants, where did you get all those brilliant ideas from?'
'Well, it's just common sense really. And you can read it in the paper on the letters page a lot of the time - there's plen'y o' folk with good ideas out there. Well, it's not rocket science, is it?'
'Isn't it? said Pangloss. 'OK, well, you can see yourself out, can't you?'
Pangloss suddenly wondered if he could save some money on consultancy fees if there were locals who could come up with ideas for free. Just as this thought was working its way through the grey matter in his head two smartly dressed men came through the door.
'Dr Pangloss, said the first one, taking his hand and shaking it vigorously, I'm Robert Hawayun and this is my colleague, Cedric Shight.'
'So you're HS consultants, based in Newcastle - Hawayun Shight?'
'At your service.'
'Do you know what, gents,' began Pangloss, thinking on his feet. 'There's been a bit of a mix up, and I don't think I need any more consultants just at the minute.'
'Oh, lots of folk say that, said Cedric, especially after they've just received our first invoice. But they are invariably wrong. Everybody needs consultants. You just might not be fully aware of the fact at the moment. For example, you're in a right old two and eight with your brand aren't you? You don't know if you're in the Cote de Westphalia, or English Phalia or just plain old Phalia, do you?'
'Well, I suppose we're in a bit of a mess with that at the moment' stammered Pangloss, but I'm sure we can sort that out for ourselves.'
'Sort it out yourselves? This is a brand we're talking about, not just a name, you know. And that brand is going to need developing and managing. I can assure you that it's much too big a job to tackle without consultants.'
'Oh, come on, you're not serious are you?'
'Not serious? I've never been more serious in my life. Don't underestimate the power of a brand. And don't underestimate what a consultant can do for you. You're not just paying for ideas - you're paying professionals who can dress up everyday ideas in consultant speak. It's a priceless commodity in your line of work, and it doesn't come cheap. You'd better ringfence a quarter of million for the next couple of years - this is not an overnight job - there's no quick fix to your brand problem.'
'A quarter of a million?! asked Pangloss in a rather high-pitched voice.
'Absolutely, interjected mr Hawayun. But don't worry, you'll get your money's worth. Rest assured that our team of highly trained research staff will quantify the proposition and interrogate the brief until it confesses it's strengths. This brand should fight with it's trousers down but at the same time put a reassuring arm around the consumer and lead him into the house for a nice cup of tea and a chocolate hobnob.
'Well, if you put it like that ... said Pangloss, I suppose I could find a quarter of a mil from somewhere.'
'Oh we do put it like that, Dr Pangloss, we do put it like that,' said Mr Hawayun. That's precisely why we can command fees that some people might consider, ... er, slightly above the average.'
'I see,' said Dr Pangloss. Glancing out of the window he saw Mr Muttock and Mrs Dalloway walking down the road. 'Exorbitant might be a better word.'
'Slightly above the average or exorbitant,' said Mr Hawayun. Let's not argue over the semantics when you're going to be getting so much added value.'
'They're on their way up,' he said to his trusty deputy, Ahmad Hatter. 'Open the door and show them in.'
Hatter opened the door and ushered in the man and woman who were approaching.
'Sit down, sit down,' urged Pangloss. 'I'm in a bit of a hurry, so let's make this quick. I've got to go and look at Christmas fairy lights on people's houses in a minute. Now, what do you think we should do to regenerate the town centre?'
'Er, drastically lower the business rates to kick start things, and put in some public toilets at the Hold-on Centre?' said the man on the left.
'Brilliant! You people really have got your finger on the pulse, haven't you? Now what do you think of my plans for a new business park out at Edgycombe Lane?'
This time the woman on the right spoke: 'Not much - I think it will just be another sprawl eating into the green belt which will take more business away from the already deserted town centre.'
'Blimey, I hadn't thought of it like that - maybe we'll have a rethink on that one. You guys are razor sharp today. I'd better write this down. OK, one last question - how do we start bringing in more tourists?'
'Start with some market research,' they said, almost in harmony.
'Hmm, market research, said Pangloss. I've heard of that. Just remind me, what is it exactly?'
'You know, asking people who holiday in the UK what they look for in a destination, that sort of thing. So you can make some sensible decisions instead of just saying the first daft thing that comes into your head.'
'Yes, yes, of course,' said Pangloss. 'It's all coming back to me now.' On the notepad in front of him he wrote in capitals 'DON'T SAY THE FIRST DAFT THING THAT COMES INTO YOUR HEAD'. 'Well, I suppose you people want paying. Well, I know you've only been here five minutes but that advice has been priceless. Hatter! Get the chequebook. Now what was it, fifty grand?'
'Fifty grand? said the man on the left. 'What for?'
'Your consultancy fee, of course.'
'We're not consultants,' said the man.
'Well who the bloody hell are you then?'
'Well, nobody really. We just came in to pay our council tax. We're just two ordinary locals. I'm Jack Muttock, and this is Irene Dalloway.'
'Local, eh? I wondered why you were speaking in that strange way,' said Pangloss.
'Yes, sir, local sir, not loike you.'
'Oh, I'm a local as well,' said Pangloss.
'Really? Well, you don't talk loike us, do 'ee?'
'No, I went away to school - to avoid people like you, and your strange vowels. Anyway, I'd love you to stay and chat, but you're obviously in the wrong place. Hang on though; if you're not consultants, where did you get all those brilliant ideas from?'
'Well, it's just common sense really. And you can read it in the paper on the letters page a lot of the time - there's plen'y o' folk with good ideas out there. Well, it's not rocket science, is it?'
'Isn't it? said Pangloss. 'OK, well, you can see yourself out, can't you?'
Pangloss suddenly wondered if he could save some money on consultancy fees if there were locals who could come up with ideas for free. Just as this thought was working its way through the grey matter in his head two smartly dressed men came through the door.
'Dr Pangloss, said the first one, taking his hand and shaking it vigorously, I'm Robert Hawayun and this is my colleague, Cedric Shight.'
'So you're HS consultants, based in Newcastle - Hawayun Shight?'
'At your service.'
'Do you know what, gents,' began Pangloss, thinking on his feet. 'There's been a bit of a mix up, and I don't think I need any more consultants just at the minute.'
'Oh, lots of folk say that, said Cedric, especially after they've just received our first invoice. But they are invariably wrong. Everybody needs consultants. You just might not be fully aware of the fact at the moment. For example, you're in a right old two and eight with your brand aren't you? You don't know if you're in the Cote de Westphalia, or English Phalia or just plain old Phalia, do you?'
'Well, I suppose we're in a bit of a mess with that at the moment' stammered Pangloss, but I'm sure we can sort that out for ourselves.'
'Sort it out yourselves? This is a brand we're talking about, not just a name, you know. And that brand is going to need developing and managing. I can assure you that it's much too big a job to tackle without consultants.'
'Oh, come on, you're not serious are you?'
'Not serious? I've never been more serious in my life. Don't underestimate the power of a brand. And don't underestimate what a consultant can do for you. You're not just paying for ideas - you're paying professionals who can dress up everyday ideas in consultant speak. It's a priceless commodity in your line of work, and it doesn't come cheap. You'd better ringfence a quarter of million for the next couple of years - this is not an overnight job - there's no quick fix to your brand problem.'
'A quarter of a million?! asked Pangloss in a rather high-pitched voice.
'Absolutely, interjected mr Hawayun. But don't worry, you'll get your money's worth. Rest assured that our team of highly trained research staff will quantify the proposition and interrogate the brief until it confesses it's strengths. This brand should fight with it's trousers down but at the same time put a reassuring arm around the consumer and lead him into the house for a nice cup of tea and a chocolate hobnob.
'Well, if you put it like that ... said Pangloss, I suppose I could find a quarter of a mil from somewhere.'
'Oh we do put it like that, Dr Pangloss, we do put it like that,' said Mr Hawayun. That's precisely why we can command fees that some people might consider, ... er, slightly above the average.'
'I see,' said Dr Pangloss. Glancing out of the window he saw Mr Muttock and Mrs Dalloway walking down the road. 'Exorbitant might be a better word.'
'Slightly above the average or exorbitant,' said Mr Hawayun. Let's not argue over the semantics when you're going to be getting so much added value.'
Chapter 32 In which Charlie Windsor has a moment of self-doubt
While Loretta Martin was enjoying tea and a chat with the logician, Charlie Windsor had arrived home and was just turning his computer on. He sat down with a sigh as the screen flicked into life. The last few days had shaken him, and now he was considering his strategy he was beginning to wonder if it was all really worth it. He thought about his position. Here he was trying to raise his profile, writing bloody letters about the EU to the paper and then waiting a couple of days to see them in print. And then he had to pick another topic and start again with another letter. Since Pangloss had been elected as mayor Charlie had practically been eclipsed. Yes, bloody Pangloss, who Charlie himself had helped reserve a seat in first class on the gravy train. Good God, how had this come about? He had arrived in Westphalia-on-Sea in 2002 and spent every waking moment trying to get his face in the paper and to ingratiate himself with the locals, and now Pangloss was upstaging him at every turn. An estate agent after all, and to add insult to injury, all he had to do was fart, and he'd get a three-page spread in the Westphalia Express. There he was, safe in his job until 2011, while Charlie would have to face the electorate in 2010 or before. And what if he failed to get himself elected then? Would the party allow him a third attempt? He could just imagine the party's response: 'Damn good job you've done old boy, but maybe it's time to give a local man a chance.'
And who would that local man be? Why, none other than Dr Pangloss himself, he shouldn't wonder.
Charlie tried to put these depressing thoughts out of his mind and logged in to his blog. He checked how many people had voted in his 'days in prison without being charged' poll. The screen told him it was twenty-nine. It had been running for about two weeks.
'Twenty-fucking-nine!' said Charlie despondently under his breath.
'What's that darling?' came his wife's voice from the kitchen.
'Oh, nothing,' replied Charlie. He clicked onto the Piddlebackside blog - it was becoming something of an obsession. The bloggers had started another poll, and they had already had sixty-nine votes. Sixty-nine in two days, thought Charlie, and there'll be a few more this evening, no doubt. He began to consider whether in this case there was such a thing as bad publicity, contrary to the old advertisers' mantra. Was it better that he was often a key character on the Piddlebackside blog, or would it have been better to remain in the relative obscurity of his own little blog? Did he want to be known as the loyal supporter of Dr Pangloss, or would he prefer to just tap out postings for twenty-nine people to leisurely read over two weeks? Hmm, it was becoming rather philosophical, and he felt that he needed a drink. Scrolling down and reading the Piddlebackside blog, he noticed his character, Philip Eton, was just mixing himself a Gin Fizz; gin, lemon juice and a little sugar shaken over ice and topped up with soda water. Haven't had one of those in ages, thought Charlie. Maybe I'll have the same - no, wait a minute. This was ridiculous. He was actually being influenced by the blog. Wait, no he wasn't. He was just being paranoid. This was a pure coincidence; it had to be. Everyone's ready for a drink when they get home from work.
Charlie stared blankly at the computer screen, waiting for inspiration to strike and provide a topic to write about. Moan about Brian Localbloke? Hmm, probably have to lay off that for a while - negative campaigning and all that. 'Education?' he mumbled to himself. No, best stay away from that - he couldn't really remember if the Tories were currently in favour of grammar schools or against them after the last Cameron debacle. The war in Iraq? No, steer clear, they had definitely supported that fiasco. Oh well, he thought, as he began tapping lightly on the keys, might as well do the predictable thing and focus attention on dodgy donations to the Labour Party. At least the Tories were looking slightly less sleazy than Labour now. It wasn't much of a story, thought Charlie, but if only twenty-nine people are going to read it I suppose it doesn't really matter. Just then his wife appeared.
'What's up?' she said. 'You look all done in.'
'Oh, you know, just wondering if it's all worth it, that's all,' replied Charlie without turning round.
'Well maybe this'll cheer you up,' she said. She placed a tall glass next to his mouse pad and then began gently rubbing his shoulders.
'What's that?' he asked, nodding at the glass, still typing.
'Gin fizz,' she said, still rubbing. 'My, you do feel tense.'
And who would that local man be? Why, none other than Dr Pangloss himself, he shouldn't wonder.
Charlie tried to put these depressing thoughts out of his mind and logged in to his blog. He checked how many people had voted in his 'days in prison without being charged' poll. The screen told him it was twenty-nine. It had been running for about two weeks.
'Twenty-fucking-nine!' said Charlie despondently under his breath.
'What's that darling?' came his wife's voice from the kitchen.
'Oh, nothing,' replied Charlie. He clicked onto the Piddlebackside blog - it was becoming something of an obsession. The bloggers had started another poll, and they had already had sixty-nine votes. Sixty-nine in two days, thought Charlie, and there'll be a few more this evening, no doubt. He began to consider whether in this case there was such a thing as bad publicity, contrary to the old advertisers' mantra. Was it better that he was often a key character on the Piddlebackside blog, or would it have been better to remain in the relative obscurity of his own little blog? Did he want to be known as the loyal supporter of Dr Pangloss, or would he prefer to just tap out postings for twenty-nine people to leisurely read over two weeks? Hmm, it was becoming rather philosophical, and he felt that he needed a drink. Scrolling down and reading the Piddlebackside blog, he noticed his character, Philip Eton, was just mixing himself a Gin Fizz; gin, lemon juice and a little sugar shaken over ice and topped up with soda water. Haven't had one of those in ages, thought Charlie. Maybe I'll have the same - no, wait a minute. This was ridiculous. He was actually being influenced by the blog. Wait, no he wasn't. He was just being paranoid. This was a pure coincidence; it had to be. Everyone's ready for a drink when they get home from work.
Charlie stared blankly at the computer screen, waiting for inspiration to strike and provide a topic to write about. Moan about Brian Localbloke? Hmm, probably have to lay off that for a while - negative campaigning and all that. 'Education?' he mumbled to himself. No, best stay away from that - he couldn't really remember if the Tories were currently in favour of grammar schools or against them after the last Cameron debacle. The war in Iraq? No, steer clear, they had definitely supported that fiasco. Oh well, he thought, as he began tapping lightly on the keys, might as well do the predictable thing and focus attention on dodgy donations to the Labour Party. At least the Tories were looking slightly less sleazy than Labour now. It wasn't much of a story, thought Charlie, but if only twenty-nine people are going to read it I suppose it doesn't really matter. Just then his wife appeared.
'What's up?' she said. 'You look all done in.'
'Oh, you know, just wondering if it's all worth it, that's all,' replied Charlie without turning round.
'Well maybe this'll cheer you up,' she said. She placed a tall glass next to his mouse pad and then began gently rubbing his shoulders.
'What's that?' he asked, nodding at the glass, still typing.
'Gin fizz,' she said, still rubbing. 'My, you do feel tense.'
Chapter 31 In which the logician explains why a tactical vote for the Lib-Dems is essential
'So are you saying that the Piddlebackside blog is not just a bit of fun? That there's a serious side to it?' asked Loretta, her hands cupped around a mug of tea.
'Absolutely. The key here is the internet - it has given ordinary people a voice, enables like-minded people to connect with each other, and allows people to challenge the opinions of the mainstream media. For example, look at the last census in 2001. Out of 129,706 Westphalians 800 put their religion down as 'Jedi' after emails were circulated encouraging people to do so. I know 'Jedi' hasn't been listed as an official religion, but it demonstrates the power of mass communication.'
'I see. So you're saying the bloggers are trying to influence the way people think and vote?'
'Of course. First of all, in the realm of local government it allows for a much more balanced view of Dr Pangloss's actions. It may be my imagination, but there seems to have been a certain reduction in the number of his big ideas which have been publicized since the bloggers started. And secondly, where the next general election is concerned, it could have a real impact on the outcome of a key marginal like Westphalia-on-Sea if people realise that the only way to make their vote count in a first-past-the-post system is to vote tactically. But perhaps more importantly, the internet has provided the first step towards more independent thought. Here read this, particularly the last two sentences.'
He twisted the computer screen so Loretta could see it, and she silently read:
'Absolutely. The key here is the internet - it has given ordinary people a voice, enables like-minded people to connect with each other, and allows people to challenge the opinions of the mainstream media. For example, look at the last census in 2001. Out of 129,706 Westphalians 800 put their religion down as 'Jedi' after emails were circulated encouraging people to do so. I know 'Jedi' hasn't been listed as an official religion, but it demonstrates the power of mass communication.'
'I see. So you're saying the bloggers are trying to influence the way people think and vote?'
'Of course. First of all, in the realm of local government it allows for a much more balanced view of Dr Pangloss's actions. It may be my imagination, but there seems to have been a certain reduction in the number of his big ideas which have been publicized since the bloggers started. And secondly, where the next general election is concerned, it could have a real impact on the outcome of a key marginal like Westphalia-on-Sea if people realise that the only way to make their vote count in a first-past-the-post system is to vote tactically. But perhaps more importantly, the internet has provided the first step towards more independent thought. Here read this, particularly the last two sentences.'
He twisted the computer screen so Loretta could see it, and she silently read:
'Private capital tends to become concentrated in few hands, partly because of competition among the capitalists, and partly because technological development and the increasing division of labour encourage the formation of larger units of production at the expense of the smaller ones. The result of these developments is an oligarchy of private capital the enormous power of which cannot be effectively checked even by a democratically organised political society. This is true since the members of legislative bodies are selected by political parties, largely financed or otherwise influenced by private capitalists who, for all practical purposes, separate the electorate from the legislature. The consequence is that the representatives of the people do not in fact sufficiently protect the interests of the underprivileged sections of the population. Moreover, under existing conditions, private capitalists inevitably control, directly or indirectly, the main sources of information (press, radio, education). It is thus extremely difficult, and indeed in most cases quite impossible, for the individual citizen to come to objective conclusions and to make intelligent use of his political rights.'
When she had finished reading she looked at him and said: 'Yes, when I think of the influence of Rupert Murdoch, the big supermarkets, international oil barons and Lord Ashcroft bankrolling the Tory Party it all seems very apposite. Did you write it?'
'No I didn't, I'm afraid. Einstein wrote it back in 1949, but as you say, it all rings pretty true today.'
'Even so, what point are you making? That the internet will enable us to take on big business and the media corporations?'
'Not exactly, but used intelligently it has the potential to bring about victory on a much smaller scale - keeping the Tories out of Westphalia-on-Sea at the next election, for example. And don't forget Lao Tzu's famous quote: 'A journey of a thousand miles must begin with a single step'. Do you think when Swampy climbed his first tree and became an eco-warrior he ever would have thought that ten years later the Tories would be rushing to redesign their logo and tell everyone how much they cared about the environment?'
'Yes, I've often wondered if anyone is actually taken in by all this drivel about 'green this' and 'eco-friendly that',' said Loretta.
'I doubt it. Anyway, after stealing the Tories' clothes and sticking with a 'right-wing' agenda it would appear that Gordon Brown and New Labour are now presiding over an economic meltdown of their own making. However, the idea that a slightly different right-wing agenda under the leadership of old Etonians and ex-members of the Bullingdon club would be a better option is simply the stuff of nightmares, so anything these bloggers can do to avert that particular disaster is all right by me - and of course, if we get to send Charlie Windsor packing in the process, so much the better.'
'Ooh, absolutely, cooed Loretta. I'll certainly spread the word that anything other than a Lib-Dem vote is a wasted vote. So how will the establishment, or the Tories, react to the blog?'
'Remember the Gandhi quote? they've already tried to ignore it, and ridicule it, so presumably they will try to fight it as well - and then we'll win.'Chapter 30 In which Loretta Martin meets a Logician
While Charlie Windsor was busy explaining the earth shattering importance of Tory visitors to the Cote de Westphalia to bemused locals Loretta Martin was walking home through the town. Jumping smartly to one side to avoid being run over by the number 12 bus, she stepped onto the escalator which took her to the upper floor where you were safe from traffic and shoppers. Gazing in the windows of the deserted shops, her eye was caught by the bright colours of a small shopfront which she had not noticed before. On the window the word 'LOGICIAN' was painted in purple. 'Have you fortune told, love?' came a voice from behind her. 'Er, no thanks,' said Loretta, as she turned around. I don't really believe in all that stuff.'
'Well if not your fortune, how about the answers to any other questions you may have?'
'But I can get the answers to any questions from Google for free, can't I?'
'Not always. Why not try me? Eugene Adamov at your service.'
Loretta thought for a moment then produced a scrap of paper from her handbag. 'OK, she said, tell me what this means: On ne peut pas tuer l'idee a coups de canon ni lui mettre les poucettes.'
'Ah, the Piddlebackside blogger? You'd better come in.'
'Well, what does it mean,' she said, following him into the rather cluttered shop.
'It means you can't kill an idea with gun shots, or put it in handcuffs. It's a quote from Louise Michel - she was with the Communards in Paris.'
'What, the eighties band?'
'No, the Communards were a group which rebelled against the rule of Napoleon III and briefly ruled Paris in April and May 1871. In a couple of months they implemented all kinds of popular reforms, such as the separation of Church and State, votes for women, and so on.'
'So why are we reading quotes like that from a time so far in the past that it has no relevance today?'
'That's a very common mistake to make - to assume the past has no connection to the present. People do it all the time, largely through ignorance. If you don't know much about the past it is tempting to completely disregard it, particularly where politics is concerned.'
'How do you mean?' asked Loretta.
'Well, for example, many people assume that society and our present political system have always been the same and will always remain the same. Of course a quick look at recent history shows that this is absolute nonsense - we are living in a constantly changing society, and it is a fact that most change for the better is only brought about through political struggle. For example, go back ten years and there was no minimum wage. Go back thirty years and throwing bananas at black footballers was deemed acceptable by many people. Go back ninety years and women were not allowed to vote. Go back ninety-five years and only 58% of men could vote. People are always resistant to change, particularly those people who stand to have their power and wealth eroded by change, so they do their level best to deride any new ideas which might benefit the majority. Gandhi said: "First they ignore you, then they ridicule you, then they fight you, then you win." Take my first example of the minimum wage - in 1997 the Tories were opposed to it, now the idea of abolishing it would be considered a terrible step backwards. Now think about so called long-haired left-wing hippy tree-huggers. They have been derided by the political mainstream since the 1960s, but suddenly politicians are falling over themselves in an effort to appear green, and with the continuing bloodshed in Iraq people are now saying 'what's so funny about peace love and understanding?' Still, I think it will be some time before we see a headline in the Daily Mail saying WE CONCEDE - LEFTY HIPPIES WERE RIGHT.'
'I see. So people that say things like 'I don't vote - politicians and parties are all the same' are a bit misguided?'
'Not so much misguided as downright stupid. People seem to believe that all parties have the same goals, and that changing the governing party will have no effect on society; clearly this is not true: just one event - the introduction of the minimum wage - has proved that. It's time for people to wake up to what politics is about. Anyone who fails to recognise that all the major advances in society over the last century have come about through political activism against the establishment, and in political terms 'the establishment' is the Tories, is quite mad. Shall I put the kettle on?'
'Well if not your fortune, how about the answers to any other questions you may have?'
'But I can get the answers to any questions from Google for free, can't I?'
'Not always. Why not try me? Eugene Adamov at your service.'
Loretta thought for a moment then produced a scrap of paper from her handbag. 'OK, she said, tell me what this means: On ne peut pas tuer l'idee a coups de canon ni lui mettre les poucettes.'
'Ah, the Piddlebackside blogger? You'd better come in.'
'Well, what does it mean,' she said, following him into the rather cluttered shop.
'It means you can't kill an idea with gun shots, or put it in handcuffs. It's a quote from Louise Michel - she was with the Communards in Paris.'
'What, the eighties band?'
'No, the Communards were a group which rebelled against the rule of Napoleon III and briefly ruled Paris in April and May 1871. In a couple of months they implemented all kinds of popular reforms, such as the separation of Church and State, votes for women, and so on.'
'So why are we reading quotes like that from a time so far in the past that it has no relevance today?'
'That's a very common mistake to make - to assume the past has no connection to the present. People do it all the time, largely through ignorance. If you don't know much about the past it is tempting to completely disregard it, particularly where politics is concerned.'
'How do you mean?' asked Loretta.
'Well, for example, many people assume that society and our present political system have always been the same and will always remain the same. Of course a quick look at recent history shows that this is absolute nonsense - we are living in a constantly changing society, and it is a fact that most change for the better is only brought about through political struggle. For example, go back ten years and there was no minimum wage. Go back thirty years and throwing bananas at black footballers was deemed acceptable by many people. Go back ninety years and women were not allowed to vote. Go back ninety-five years and only 58% of men could vote. People are always resistant to change, particularly those people who stand to have their power and wealth eroded by change, so they do their level best to deride any new ideas which might benefit the majority. Gandhi said: "First they ignore you, then they ridicule you, then they fight you, then you win." Take my first example of the minimum wage - in 1997 the Tories were opposed to it, now the idea of abolishing it would be considered a terrible step backwards. Now think about so called long-haired left-wing hippy tree-huggers. They have been derided by the political mainstream since the 1960s, but suddenly politicians are falling over themselves in an effort to appear green, and with the continuing bloodshed in Iraq people are now saying 'what's so funny about peace love and understanding?' Still, I think it will be some time before we see a headline in the Daily Mail saying WE CONCEDE - LEFTY HIPPIES WERE RIGHT.'
'I see. So people that say things like 'I don't vote - politicians and parties are all the same' are a bit misguided?'
'Not so much misguided as downright stupid. People seem to believe that all parties have the same goals, and that changing the governing party will have no effect on society; clearly this is not true: just one event - the introduction of the minimum wage - has proved that. It's time for people to wake up to what politics is about. Anyone who fails to recognise that all the major advances in society over the last century have come about through political activism against the establishment, and in political terms 'the establishment' is the Tories, is quite mad. Shall I put the kettle on?'
Chapter 29 In which the Westphalians learn about the visits of Tory grandees
Charlie Windsor felt reinvigorated after deciding to strike out and make an impression on the voters of the Cote de Westphalia, or whatever Pangloss and his consultants were calling it at the moment. After all, Charlie himself was a management consultant, so if anyone could come up with top-notch ideas to focus people's attention on why they should vote Conservative it was him.
First of all he told people how two high profile Tory shadow ministers had visited Westphalia-on-Sea. He told everyone about Michael Gove's visit. And the Westphalians were both honoured and very excited, and said: 'Who?' And Charlie said: 'You know, that bloke who used to work for Rupert Murdoch at The Times and describes himself as a neo-Conservative.' And the Westphalians said: 'Oh, we can't stand him.' Then Charlie told them about Andrew Mitchell's visit, and the Westphalians were equally excited and said: 'Oo?' And Charlie said 'You know, the charming and intelligent Andrew Mitchell.' And the Westphalians said: 'Oo? Us 'uv never bleddy 'eard uv 'im.'
And Charlie said: 'for goodness sake, he's the shadow Secretary of State for International Development and he came to look at the proposals for a new library in Eastphalia. He obviously cares pasionately about the people of Eastphalia.'
And the people said: 'Are you sure it's not because the Tories desperately want to win this seat at the next election and want to give you some publicity?'
And Charlie Windsor said: 'Of course not, politics isn't like that. They came because they care about you as much as I do. That's why I uprooted my family and came to live among you straw-chewing yokels - it was a selfless act of love. If, in the process of caring, I happen to become an MP and draw a fat salary, it will be pure (yet happy) coincidence.'
Naturally this reassured most of the simple folk of the Cote de Westphalia, but one or two had lingering doubts. 'What's wrong with the MP we've got? they asked. He grew up here and understands us, and even supports Westphalia United.'
And Charlie said: 'Oh, for goodness sake, how many times do I have to tell you people? He's Brian Uselessbloke, he never has any big ideas, he's not a Conservative and worst of all he didn't support having an elected mayor. I, on the other hand, have gone on record as saying that Dr Pangloss is the best thing to happen to Westphalia-on-Sea in a generation, and so do a large and growing number of the people who live here.'
'And the Westphalians said: 'You what? Best thing in a generation? We think you bin out in the sun too long, buey.'
And then Charlie began to wish he hadn't supported Pangloss quite so vociferously in the past, and hoped that over time people would forget some of the things he had said and written, and really wished he hadn't brought all this up again because it probably wouldn't help his cause.
First of all he told people how two high profile Tory shadow ministers had visited Westphalia-on-Sea. He told everyone about Michael Gove's visit. And the Westphalians were both honoured and very excited, and said: 'Who?' And Charlie said: 'You know, that bloke who used to work for Rupert Murdoch at The Times and describes himself as a neo-Conservative.' And the Westphalians said: 'Oh, we can't stand him.' Then Charlie told them about Andrew Mitchell's visit, and the Westphalians were equally excited and said: 'Oo?' And Charlie said 'You know, the charming and intelligent Andrew Mitchell.' And the Westphalians said: 'Oo? Us 'uv never bleddy 'eard uv 'im.'
And Charlie said: 'for goodness sake, he's the shadow Secretary of State for International Development and he came to look at the proposals for a new library in Eastphalia. He obviously cares pasionately about the people of Eastphalia.'
And the people said: 'Are you sure it's not because the Tories desperately want to win this seat at the next election and want to give you some publicity?'
And Charlie Windsor said: 'Of course not, politics isn't like that. They came because they care about you as much as I do. That's why I uprooted my family and came to live among you straw-chewing yokels - it was a selfless act of love. If, in the process of caring, I happen to become an MP and draw a fat salary, it will be pure (yet happy) coincidence.'
Naturally this reassured most of the simple folk of the Cote de Westphalia, but one or two had lingering doubts. 'What's wrong with the MP we've got? they asked. He grew up here and understands us, and even supports Westphalia United.'
And Charlie said: 'Oh, for goodness sake, how many times do I have to tell you people? He's Brian Uselessbloke, he never has any big ideas, he's not a Conservative and worst of all he didn't support having an elected mayor. I, on the other hand, have gone on record as saying that Dr Pangloss is the best thing to happen to Westphalia-on-Sea in a generation, and so do a large and growing number of the people who live here.'
'And the Westphalians said: 'You what? Best thing in a generation? We think you bin out in the sun too long, buey.'
And then Charlie began to wish he hadn't supported Pangloss quite so vociferously in the past, and hoped that over time people would forget some of the things he had said and written, and really wished he hadn't brought all this up again because it probably wouldn't help his cause.
PLEASE NOTE
As the 17th November is a special feast day in Westphalia-on-Sea (the Day of San Pedro de Cocinero), commemorating its favourite son, there will be no more blog entries until Tuesday 20th November.
Chapter 28 In which Charlie realises that the problem with political jokes is that they get elected
Charlie Windsor woke up sweating. It was only a nightmare, but it was one he had had before. In it he was on the stump, doing what he did best - negative campaigning. As he came to the end of his sentence his voice began to rise as he uttered his rhetorical question: 'what have the Lib Dems and Labour ever done for us?' Instead of the applause he was expecting, a voice shouted out 'old age pensions!', then another shouted 'the National Health Service!' Pretty soon there were contributions from all around his audience: 'Unemployment benefit!' 'the minimum wage!' 'Windfall tax on privatised utilities after the Tories sold them off too cheaply! 'Votes for men!' 'Votes for women!' It was starting to sound like a bloody film script, but thankfully he woke up before it got any more depressing.
Charlie recalled the words of Martin Leyland, about having to distance himself from the lame duck mayor. Worryingly, at the moment he was playing second fiddle to the mayor, yet having to openly support his every idea, his every political move. This wasn't how it was supposed to have turned out. As he lay in bed he remembered when he had arrived in Westphalia-on-Sea. He remembered how he had gradually raised his profile through a continual process of well-timed exposure in the media. He built himself up to be the voice of the Conservatives in the area, and now look at the situation. Dr Pangloss had come from the obscurity of estate agency to be at the top of the Tory heap, and Charlie Windsor, as his campaign manager, had helped put him there. Pangloss was in the paper every day, and now Charlie was having to work extra hard just to stand still in terms of self-publicity. The mayor had his own column in the paper, and so did Charlie's rival, Brian Localbloke. But what did Charlie himself have? A blog read by about twelve people, and the odd letter in the Westphalia Express, where he had to compete for space with people giving thanks to strangers for helping them after a fall in the local supermarket. And you couldn't just write letters out of thin air - they had to be linked to something. When there was nothing interesting locally to write about he couldn't just write 'Hey everybody, I'm still here you know, waiting for the election, don't forget about me.' No, at such times he was reduced to commenting on Gordon Brown's policy on the EU Treaty, or pointing out what a dead loss Gordon Brown was if you conveniently forgot that he had been Chancellor of the Exchequer for ten years and was now Prime Minister. The more Charlie considered his position the more disgruntled he became, especially when he remembered that in the good old days before elected mayors it was he, Charlie Windsor, who had been the undisputed ideas man when he rode into town...
... yes, it was the twenty-ninth of April 2003, but Charlie remembered it as if it was yesterday. Martin Aston was in the paper a lot, with his famous car number plate 8ULL 5H1T. Charlie had sat down with Martin and a few others and come up with some cracking ideas for the future. When the Westphalia Express saw fit to announce that some of the greatest minds on the Cote de Westphalia had been engaged in a little futuristic problem solving it referred to the participants as 'a think-tank group'. And it referred to his '20-20 vision' idea as a 'brainchild'. Yes, he, Charlie Windsor, had headed up a bloody think-tank and had given birth to a brainchild in the same afternoon. A tank full of thinkers and a diminutive cerubellum on legs. And now here he was, playing deputy to the mayor's sheriff. In fact he wasn't even that, because the mayor had a deputy. No, the Westphalia Express didn't come to him for a quote unless all the phones in the Town Hall were going straight to bloody voicemail. Yet back in 2003 it had all been so different. Back then he could suggest turning the clock back to the swinging sixties in Eastphalia to give it a retro look and feel. Yes, he said if you had lampposts and shopfronts from the 1960s visitors would flock into town - it would be shag-tastic, just like an Austin Powers movie. Yes, back then he could come up with an idea every bit as lame as any of Dr Pangloss's, and still get half a page in the Westphalia Express with a big photo as well. That journalist was right - he was going to have to start distancing himself from Pangloss, and start fighting - politics was a dirty business, he thought, but if you wanted an MP's salary you had to jolly well roll your sleeves up get stuck in. Feeling invigorated by this mental pep-talk he jumped out of bed, pulled his Union Jack dressing gown on and saluted the picture of Margaret Thatcher on the wall.
Charlie recalled the words of Martin Leyland, about having to distance himself from the lame duck mayor. Worryingly, at the moment he was playing second fiddle to the mayor, yet having to openly support his every idea, his every political move. This wasn't how it was supposed to have turned out. As he lay in bed he remembered when he had arrived in Westphalia-on-Sea. He remembered how he had gradually raised his profile through a continual process of well-timed exposure in the media. He built himself up to be the voice of the Conservatives in the area, and now look at the situation. Dr Pangloss had come from the obscurity of estate agency to be at the top of the Tory heap, and Charlie Windsor, as his campaign manager, had helped put him there. Pangloss was in the paper every day, and now Charlie was having to work extra hard just to stand still in terms of self-publicity. The mayor had his own column in the paper, and so did Charlie's rival, Brian Localbloke. But what did Charlie himself have? A blog read by about twelve people, and the odd letter in the Westphalia Express, where he had to compete for space with people giving thanks to strangers for helping them after a fall in the local supermarket. And you couldn't just write letters out of thin air - they had to be linked to something. When there was nothing interesting locally to write about he couldn't just write 'Hey everybody, I'm still here you know, waiting for the election, don't forget about me.' No, at such times he was reduced to commenting on Gordon Brown's policy on the EU Treaty, or pointing out what a dead loss Gordon Brown was if you conveniently forgot that he had been Chancellor of the Exchequer for ten years and was now Prime Minister. The more Charlie considered his position the more disgruntled he became, especially when he remembered that in the good old days before elected mayors it was he, Charlie Windsor, who had been the undisputed ideas man when he rode into town...
... yes, it was the twenty-ninth of April 2003, but Charlie remembered it as if it was yesterday. Martin Aston was in the paper a lot, with his famous car number plate 8ULL 5H1T. Charlie had sat down with Martin and a few others and come up with some cracking ideas for the future. When the Westphalia Express saw fit to announce that some of the greatest minds on the Cote de Westphalia had been engaged in a little futuristic problem solving it referred to the participants as 'a think-tank group'. And it referred to his '20-20 vision' idea as a 'brainchild'. Yes, he, Charlie Windsor, had headed up a bloody think-tank and had given birth to a brainchild in the same afternoon. A tank full of thinkers and a diminutive cerubellum on legs. And now here he was, playing deputy to the mayor's sheriff. In fact he wasn't even that, because the mayor had a deputy. No, the Westphalia Express didn't come to him for a quote unless all the phones in the Town Hall were going straight to bloody voicemail. Yet back in 2003 it had all been so different. Back then he could suggest turning the clock back to the swinging sixties in Eastphalia to give it a retro look and feel. Yes, he said if you had lampposts and shopfronts from the 1960s visitors would flock into town - it would be shag-tastic, just like an Austin Powers movie. Yes, back then he could come up with an idea every bit as lame as any of Dr Pangloss's, and still get half a page in the Westphalia Express with a big photo as well. That journalist was right - he was going to have to start distancing himself from Pangloss, and start fighting - politics was a dirty business, he thought, but if you wanted an MP's salary you had to jolly well roll your sleeves up get stuck in. Feeling invigorated by this mental pep-talk he jumped out of bed, pulled his Union Jack dressing gown on and saluted the picture of Margaret Thatcher on the wall.
Chapter 27 In which we reflect on what has happened in one month in Westphalia-on-Sea
At this point in the saga some of the people in Westphalia-on-Sea began to take stock of what had been happening in their little town. Just four weeks earlier the first five chapters of the fledgling Piddlebackside blog had been pushed out of the nest and left to fend for themselves on the internet. The political musings of person or persons unknown, at a time when people were becoming increasingly disillusioned with the political process, they were surely not going to interest anyone; Allen Salkin, writing in the New York Times, said 'many blogs have a readership of one, -or at best, the writer, his mother and some guy from grade school who found him on Google'. It was even more bizarre then, that the Piddlebackside blog should buck the trend and develop a relatively large readership in a very short space of time, be featured on local radio and discussed by Members of Parliament. When commentators examined the reasons for its success they found that it appealed to a wide cross-section of society who all had two things in common. Firstly, they all hated their elected leader squandering huge amounts of their hard-earned cash on consultants when the answers to most questions were staring everyone in the face, and secondly, they were utterly fed up with the stream of drivel about grandiose schemes for future prosperity to which they were constantly subjected. It seemed that the people coming up with ideas such as high-speed ferries, brand name changes and turning towns into cities were on a different planet, and as time went on some of the Westphalians began to speculate about which planet it might be. It will probably come as no surprise to many readers to hear that the conclusion reached by most of these amateur astronomers was that this kind of talk could only come from Uranus.
Like any new TV show, film or book, the blog had its fans, but it also had its detractors. These were mainly the people who were deeply involved in peddling the fanciful stories about future prosperity, and selling off bits of Westphalia-on-Sea's beautiful coastline to developers. These were people like the mayor, Dr Pangloss, the Deputy Mayor, Ahmad Hatter, and Charlie Windsor, the Mayor's staunch ally, his campaign manager, and prospective MP. Since it would bore readers to keep reading this list of names we can use a more convenient 'umbrella term' and call them 'the Conservatives', and that way we can include all the people who thought the same way as those three. Now, before any accusations of political bias are made, at this point it should be remembered that all political parties have eye-wateringly stupid ideas from time to time. However, on the Cote de Westphalia it was this group which had an impressive history of repeatedly hiring expensive firms of consultants and then applauding every hare-brained scheme which was presented by them.
So it was then that some of these Conservatives said whoever's writing this blog 'is far too up himself', he's 'arrogant' and 'too clever by half', and that Piddlebackside was a 'little imaginary world'. Of course what they obviously hadn't realised was the reason the blog was so popular was not because Piddlebackside was a little imaginary world, but because it held a mirror up to the real world of Westphalia-on-Sea. From their comments it was also clear that the other thing that Conservatives didn't like was 'clever', especially when it came in quantities 50% bigger than normal. No, they didn't seem to like 'clever', or people that read books and thought for themselves, or people that applied simple logic to everyday life, or people that could string two words together and seemed to know what they were talking about. Conservatives were people who believed they lived in the best of all possible worlds, and if this required an unquestioning belief in all sorts of claptrap, then so be it. In fact in this respect they were not at all unlike the Queen in Through the Looking Glass. In that volume Alice points out that one can't believe impossible things, to which the Queen replies: "I daresay you haven't had much practice. When I was your age, I always did it for half-an-hour a day. Why, sometimes I've believed as many as six impossible things before breakfast."
Claptrap, as intelligent readers are no doubt aware, can come in many forms: it could be the idea that there are thousands of wealthy visitors waiting to come to Westphalia-on-Sea if only the town had another casino, and fewer pensioners, chavs and young farmers. It could be something as simple as changing the name of a town, or it could be the complicated business of turning a town into a city. Now as most of this kind of claptrap was helpfully reported in the Westphalia Express, Westphalians had plenty of practice in believing it, but unlike the Queen in Carroll's masterpiece it seemed as though they were becoming increasingly unwilling to do so. Indeed, some Westphalians began to sense that there was music in the cafes at night and revolution in the air.
Like any new TV show, film or book, the blog had its fans, but it also had its detractors. These were mainly the people who were deeply involved in peddling the fanciful stories about future prosperity, and selling off bits of Westphalia-on-Sea's beautiful coastline to developers. These were people like the mayor, Dr Pangloss, the Deputy Mayor, Ahmad Hatter, and Charlie Windsor, the Mayor's staunch ally, his campaign manager, and prospective MP. Since it would bore readers to keep reading this list of names we can use a more convenient 'umbrella term' and call them 'the Conservatives', and that way we can include all the people who thought the same way as those three. Now, before any accusations of political bias are made, at this point it should be remembered that all political parties have eye-wateringly stupid ideas from time to time. However, on the Cote de Westphalia it was this group which had an impressive history of repeatedly hiring expensive firms of consultants and then applauding every hare-brained scheme which was presented by them.
So it was then that some of these Conservatives said whoever's writing this blog 'is far too up himself', he's 'arrogant' and 'too clever by half', and that Piddlebackside was a 'little imaginary world'. Of course what they obviously hadn't realised was the reason the blog was so popular was not because Piddlebackside was a little imaginary world, but because it held a mirror up to the real world of Westphalia-on-Sea. From their comments it was also clear that the other thing that Conservatives didn't like was 'clever', especially when it came in quantities 50% bigger than normal. No, they didn't seem to like 'clever', or people that read books and thought for themselves, or people that applied simple logic to everyday life, or people that could string two words together and seemed to know what they were talking about. Conservatives were people who believed they lived in the best of all possible worlds, and if this required an unquestioning belief in all sorts of claptrap, then so be it. In fact in this respect they were not at all unlike the Queen in Through the Looking Glass. In that volume Alice points out that one can't believe impossible things, to which the Queen replies: "I daresay you haven't had much practice. When I was your age, I always did it for half-an-hour a day. Why, sometimes I've believed as many as six impossible things before breakfast."
Claptrap, as intelligent readers are no doubt aware, can come in many forms: it could be the idea that there are thousands of wealthy visitors waiting to come to Westphalia-on-Sea if only the town had another casino, and fewer pensioners, chavs and young farmers. It could be something as simple as changing the name of a town, or it could be the complicated business of turning a town into a city. Now as most of this kind of claptrap was helpfully reported in the Westphalia Express, Westphalians had plenty of practice in believing it, but unlike the Queen in Carroll's masterpiece it seemed as though they were becoming increasingly unwilling to do so. Indeed, some Westphalians began to sense that there was music in the cafes at night and revolution in the air.
Chapter 26 In which Charlie decides to try and outwit the bloggers
As Pangloss and his faithful sidekick Charlie left the Westphalia Express building there was a faint sound of the national anthem. Charlie took his phone out of his pocket and flipped it open.
'Mr Windsor?' said the voice at the other end.
'Yes,' said Charlie.
'This is Martin Leyland; I'm a journalist. I wonder if I could have a few words with you - alone?'
'It's him!' hissed Charlie, covering the mouthpiece.
Half an hour later Charlie Windsor was sitting opposite Martin Leyland in the Westphalia-on-Sea Conservative Club.
'The people at the Westphalia Express are going mad looking for you,' said Charlie.
'Well, they only had to pick up the phone book and call me,' replied Leyland.
'Do you mean to say Martin Leyland is your real name?'
'Yeah, why wouldn't it be?'
'Well, I just thought ... you know, with the people at the newspaper not being able to find you ...'
'That lot? They couldn't find their arse in the dark with both hands.'
'Really? Now let me ask you directly: are you the Piddlebackside blogger?'
'No, I'm not, but I know who is.'
'Well, do you mind telling me his name then?'
'Their names. This is too big for just one person; it's a team of writers.'
'Oh. We were becoming convinced it was you.'
'Yes, that was the plan. The clue was in one of the early chapters where misdirection was mentioned. A lot of careful groundwork was laid down in advance - I had to be in on it because I agreed to be the front man. Radio Heaven almost caught me on the hop when they phoned for an interview, but luckily I stalled for time and was able to call the people behind it to see how they wanted to play it.'
'Oh, I didn't realise ...'
'I don't think anybody did. I even told my parents that I was behind it. Telling my mother is an extremely efficient way of disseminating rumour and hearsay around Westphalia-on-Sea, and she's been around a lot longer than the internet, so it would have been foolish not to use such a useful resource.'
'I see; so they still think ...'
'... it's me. Yes,' finished Leyland. Look, everyone is starting to think it's me now, so the radio and the papers will soon lose interest and you'll never find out who's really behind it. The internet allows people to create multiple blogs and personalities under assumed names, and then hide behind the word 'anonymous' to make comments. Nothing is really what it seems. What's important is not who's writing it, but what they're writing. And in your case, how much damage it can do.'
'Yes, I suppose you're right there.'
'Now, the reason I asked to meet you alone was to ask you this - what do you plan to do about your relationship with Pangloss?'
'How do you mean?'
'Well, weren't you his campaign manager during the election?'
'Yes.'
'And haven't you been very supportive of all his big ideas?'
'Well, yes. Actually I've had a few big ideas of my own, you know.'
'Yes, I know, said Leyland. We'll come to those all in good time. But for now, you do realise that you have to start distancing yourself from Pangloss, don't you?'
'Do I? Why?'
'Because he's a lame duck mayor, of course. If you keep on supporting him over the next two years your support will slowly ebb away, and with it your dream of becoming an MP - that's a given.'
'Blimey, I hadn't really thought of it in those terms.'
Well, maybe you'd better start thinking in those terms. With hindsight, a Conservative mayor was probably the last thing you needed.'
'Hmm, I really need to think hard about all of what you've told me. I was wondering, do you think I could start a blog that satirized the Piddlebackside blog? Would that work?'
'I doubt it. I mean, who would read it? The real one is heading for 8,000 hits. It's a nice idea, and I'm sure they'd be flattered, but realistically you're not in their league, are you? I mean, what would you say on it?'
'Oh, I'd say I know who they are.'
'And ...?'
'Well, that's it.'
'Hmm, it's a bit lame, if you ask me. What would you call yourself?'
'Something similar to the blogger. I know - Voltaire.'
'Hmm, not very original is it? People will probably just think it's the bloggers throwing out more red herrings and not you being clever, and then you'd have gone to all that trouble for nothing.'
'Well, it's up to you. Good luck with your Piddlebackside.blogspot, and thanks for talking to me.'
'Mr Windsor?' said the voice at the other end.
'Yes,' said Charlie.
'This is Martin Leyland; I'm a journalist. I wonder if I could have a few words with you - alone?'
'It's him!' hissed Charlie, covering the mouthpiece.
Half an hour later Charlie Windsor was sitting opposite Martin Leyland in the Westphalia-on-Sea Conservative Club.
'The people at the Westphalia Express are going mad looking for you,' said Charlie.
'Well, they only had to pick up the phone book and call me,' replied Leyland.
'Do you mean to say Martin Leyland is your real name?'
'Yeah, why wouldn't it be?'
'Well, I just thought ... you know, with the people at the newspaper not being able to find you ...'
'That lot? They couldn't find their arse in the dark with both hands.'
'Really? Now let me ask you directly: are you the Piddlebackside blogger?'
'No, I'm not, but I know who is.'
'Well, do you mind telling me his name then?'
'Their names. This is too big for just one person; it's a team of writers.'
'Oh. We were becoming convinced it was you.'
'Yes, that was the plan. The clue was in one of the early chapters where misdirection was mentioned. A lot of careful groundwork was laid down in advance - I had to be in on it because I agreed to be the front man. Radio Heaven almost caught me on the hop when they phoned for an interview, but luckily I stalled for time and was able to call the people behind it to see how they wanted to play it.'
'Oh, I didn't realise ...'
'I don't think anybody did. I even told my parents that I was behind it. Telling my mother is an extremely efficient way of disseminating rumour and hearsay around Westphalia-on-Sea, and she's been around a lot longer than the internet, so it would have been foolish not to use such a useful resource.'
'I see; so they still think ...'
'... it's me. Yes,' finished Leyland. Look, everyone is starting to think it's me now, so the radio and the papers will soon lose interest and you'll never find out who's really behind it. The internet allows people to create multiple blogs and personalities under assumed names, and then hide behind the word 'anonymous' to make comments. Nothing is really what it seems. What's important is not who's writing it, but what they're writing. And in your case, how much damage it can do.'
'Yes, I suppose you're right there.'
'Now, the reason I asked to meet you alone was to ask you this - what do you plan to do about your relationship with Pangloss?'
'How do you mean?'
'Well, weren't you his campaign manager during the election?'
'Yes.'
'And haven't you been very supportive of all his big ideas?'
'Well, yes. Actually I've had a few big ideas of my own, you know.'
'Yes, I know, said Leyland. We'll come to those all in good time. But for now, you do realise that you have to start distancing yourself from Pangloss, don't you?'
'Do I? Why?'
'Because he's a lame duck mayor, of course. If you keep on supporting him over the next two years your support will slowly ebb away, and with it your dream of becoming an MP - that's a given.'
'Blimey, I hadn't really thought of it in those terms.'
Well, maybe you'd better start thinking in those terms. With hindsight, a Conservative mayor was probably the last thing you needed.'
'Hmm, I really need to think hard about all of what you've told me. I was wondering, do you think I could start a blog that satirized the Piddlebackside blog? Would that work?'
'I doubt it. I mean, who would read it? The real one is heading for 8,000 hits. It's a nice idea, and I'm sure they'd be flattered, but realistically you're not in their league, are you? I mean, what would you say on it?'
'Oh, I'd say I know who they are.'
'And ...?'
'Well, that's it.'
'Hmm, it's a bit lame, if you ask me. What would you call yourself?'
'Something similar to the blogger. I know - Voltaire.'
'Hmm, not very original is it? People will probably just think it's the bloggers throwing out more red herrings and not you being clever, and then you'd have gone to all that trouble for nothing.'
'Well, it's up to you. Good luck with your Piddlebackside.blogspot, and thanks for talking to me.'
Chapter 25 In which Pangloss and Charlie visit the offices of the Westphalia Express
'This discussion about education and money is getting us nowhere fast, said Pangloss with a sigh. I want to know who this blogging bloke is, and to put it bluntly, I want his bloody blogging blocked.'
'Well, what have we got? said Charlie. He knows a bit of French, and appears to be in his forties from the description the barman at the Conservative Club gave us. That's about it, isn't it?'
'Not quite, Charlie old boy, not quite. He started the Piddlebackside blog to poke fun at you and me, but then there was the other website, the newspaper spoof. And I'm forgetting that bloody journo who came and interviewed me - he was the one who warned me about the space time continuum and all that bloody nonsense. What was name? Leyland, I think. His line of questioning wasn't exactly what you'd call sympathetic - I'm sure he knows a lot more than he was letting on.'
'Did he work for the Westphalia Express?' asked Charlie.
'No, as I recall he said he was freelance. Charlie, I think it's time we started fighting back. Let's pay our friend the editor at the Westphalia Express a visit. I bet he'll be able to shed some light on this mystery hack.'
When Pangloss and Charlie Windsor arrived at the reception of the Westphalia Express it was business as usual. The working environment at the paper had the feel of a 19th-century cotton mill combined with all the fun of a slave ship when supplies are running low. Journalism seemed to be a trade which had been completed by-passed by all the recent advances in legislation related to the workplace. As the internet had eaten into newspaper circulation and advertising revenue there had been savage staffing cuts. Those that were 'lucky' to still be in a job after the axe had fallen had more and more work to do. They were always chasing what seemed like impossible deadlines. There was no going out for a lunch break - you grabbed a sandwich in front of the PC, and if you wanted a coffee you combined it with a trip to the loo - that was time management Westphalia Express-style. No-one wanted to be seen to be clock-watching and knocking off before their colleagues for fear of being the firing line the next time there was any 'rationalisation' to be done. Just to cap it all off, there was the reassuring knowledge that the same company, Southcliffe Newspapers, owned just about every other local newspaper in the area, so the chances of getting another job in the industry were virtually zero. If you took out the classified ads, the readers' letters and the bits and pieces of parish news provided cheaply by local people there was very little in it the paper; if you then took out the pictures of the mayor you were left with barely enough to wrap some chips in.
'So you think this blogger is someone close to a journalist, eh?' asked the editor, once they were in his office.
'Or maybe it is a journalist,' said Pangloss.
'Yes, said the editor. I've had my suspicions as well. Must be someone who's used to working quickly, used to proof reading and meeting tight deadlines. Leyland, you say his name was? It doesn't ring any bells, but maybe that's a pseudonym. Even though it's going to be part of a shiny new city Westphalia-on-Sea is still a small town, and everybody knows everybody else's business.'
The editor picked up the phone and said: 'Anja, send in Mr Staedtler.'
There weren't many hacks on the Cote de Westphalia that Deputy Editor John Staedtler hadn't come across.
'Staedtler, know any hacks by the name Leyland?'
'No guv. Probably not his real name, anyway.'
'That's what I thought. Right, get on the internet and search for freelance journalists in the area - let's see if that throws up anything connected to the name Leyland. And get on that blog and check the times of the postings and comments, then talk to technical support and see if anything matches up time-wise with email traffic out of this place; I'm still not convinced it's not one of our own.'
'Maybe someone with an axe to grind, guv?'
'Well, that doesn't exactly narrow it down, does it John? While you're at it, get the techies to deny access to that blog - maybe that'll flush 'em out. And check who's had time off recently - they may have been doing it from home.'
'Goodness, said Pangloss. You seem even keener to find this character than I am.'
'Too right, replied the editor. If this goes on for much longer and one of the nationals picks it up there's going to be hell to pay. Who's to say Private Eye won't do a feature in their Street of Shame column? It's already been on the local radio, for Christ's sake. This guy'd better not be an insider, that's all I can say.'
Just as the editor was finishing his sentence the door burst open. 'Guv, said the breathless reporter, got something big - the boys in blue have just seized fifty grand's worth of coke in an armed raid.'
'Bingo! said the editor. Right, that's the front page - move that bollocks about the college being a university to page two. Dr Pangloss, I'm afraid I'm going to have to bump you off the front page as well. John, where can we put the mayor today?'
'I've got the back page guv, and the inside back page - two big photo ops.'
'I haven't got to go back to the football ground, have I?' asked Pangloss, looking worried.
'No, no, said Staedtler. It's just archery over at Fishhole. We'll get you over there with a photographer. I'm not sure about that turtleneck sweater with a sports jacket, though; is that your idea of 'casual', Mr Mayor?'
'Yes, it is, replied the mayor. Don't you like it?'
'Well, what have we got? said Charlie. He knows a bit of French, and appears to be in his forties from the description the barman at the Conservative Club gave us. That's about it, isn't it?'
'Not quite, Charlie old boy, not quite. He started the Piddlebackside blog to poke fun at you and me, but then there was the other website, the newspaper spoof. And I'm forgetting that bloody journo who came and interviewed me - he was the one who warned me about the space time continuum and all that bloody nonsense. What was name? Leyland, I think. His line of questioning wasn't exactly what you'd call sympathetic - I'm sure he knows a lot more than he was letting on.'
'Did he work for the Westphalia Express?' asked Charlie.
'No, as I recall he said he was freelance. Charlie, I think it's time we started fighting back. Let's pay our friend the editor at the Westphalia Express a visit. I bet he'll be able to shed some light on this mystery hack.'
When Pangloss and Charlie Windsor arrived at the reception of the Westphalia Express it was business as usual. The working environment at the paper had the feel of a 19th-century cotton mill combined with all the fun of a slave ship when supplies are running low. Journalism seemed to be a trade which had been completed by-passed by all the recent advances in legislation related to the workplace. As the internet had eaten into newspaper circulation and advertising revenue there had been savage staffing cuts. Those that were 'lucky' to still be in a job after the axe had fallen had more and more work to do. They were always chasing what seemed like impossible deadlines. There was no going out for a lunch break - you grabbed a sandwich in front of the PC, and if you wanted a coffee you combined it with a trip to the loo - that was time management Westphalia Express-style. No-one wanted to be seen to be clock-watching and knocking off before their colleagues for fear of being the firing line the next time there was any 'rationalisation' to be done. Just to cap it all off, there was the reassuring knowledge that the same company, Southcliffe Newspapers, owned just about every other local newspaper in the area, so the chances of getting another job in the industry were virtually zero. If you took out the classified ads, the readers' letters and the bits and pieces of parish news provided cheaply by local people there was very little in it the paper; if you then took out the pictures of the mayor you were left with barely enough to wrap some chips in.
'So you think this blogger is someone close to a journalist, eh?' asked the editor, once they were in his office.
'Or maybe it is a journalist,' said Pangloss.
'Yes, said the editor. I've had my suspicions as well. Must be someone who's used to working quickly, used to proof reading and meeting tight deadlines. Leyland, you say his name was? It doesn't ring any bells, but maybe that's a pseudonym. Even though it's going to be part of a shiny new city Westphalia-on-Sea is still a small town, and everybody knows everybody else's business.'
The editor picked up the phone and said: 'Anja, send in Mr Staedtler.'
There weren't many hacks on the Cote de Westphalia that Deputy Editor John Staedtler hadn't come across.
'Staedtler, know any hacks by the name Leyland?'
'No guv. Probably not his real name, anyway.'
'That's what I thought. Right, get on the internet and search for freelance journalists in the area - let's see if that throws up anything connected to the name Leyland. And get on that blog and check the times of the postings and comments, then talk to technical support and see if anything matches up time-wise with email traffic out of this place; I'm still not convinced it's not one of our own.'
'Maybe someone with an axe to grind, guv?'
'Well, that doesn't exactly narrow it down, does it John? While you're at it, get the techies to deny access to that blog - maybe that'll flush 'em out. And check who's had time off recently - they may have been doing it from home.'
'Goodness, said Pangloss. You seem even keener to find this character than I am.'
'Too right, replied the editor. If this goes on for much longer and one of the nationals picks it up there's going to be hell to pay. Who's to say Private Eye won't do a feature in their Street of Shame column? It's already been on the local radio, for Christ's sake. This guy'd better not be an insider, that's all I can say.'
Just as the editor was finishing his sentence the door burst open. 'Guv, said the breathless reporter, got something big - the boys in blue have just seized fifty grand's worth of coke in an armed raid.'
'Bingo! said the editor. Right, that's the front page - move that bollocks about the college being a university to page two. Dr Pangloss, I'm afraid I'm going to have to bump you off the front page as well. John, where can we put the mayor today?'
'I've got the back page guv, and the inside back page - two big photo ops.'
'I haven't got to go back to the football ground, have I?' asked Pangloss, looking worried.
'No, no, said Staedtler. It's just archery over at Fishhole. We'll get you over there with a photographer. I'm not sure about that turtleneck sweater with a sports jacket, though; is that your idea of 'casual', Mr Mayor?'
'Yes, it is, replied the mayor. Don't you like it?'
Chapter 24 In which Charlie Windsor explains the idea of choice in education
'Do you know Charlie, began Pangloss, as they returned to their seats with their drinks, sometimes I feel like a character in a bloody soap opera.'
'Really? said Charlie. Why's that then?'
'Oh, I don't know. Maybe it's this place.'
They were sitting in the bar of the Sailor's Return, a notorious watering hole on the harbour of Westphalia-on-Sea. Everyone thought they had seen the last of the landlord, Martin Aston, when he went bankrupt and lost all his businesses, but he had come back from the dead and was the new licensee at the Sailor's.
'Do you think it's because Martin shaves his beard a bit like that character Bepe from Eastenders?' suggested Charlie.
'Possibly. Or maybe its because a lot of my big ideas sound like the ridiculous plot lines of TV soaps.'
'Yes, that might be it, agreed Charlie. God, that would be horrible wouldn't it? Having the spotlight on you a few time times a week, everyone knowing exactly what you were doing and thinking. I certainly hope that bastard who's writing the Piddlebackside blog doesn't get any ideas, or the next thing we'll hear is that we're in a spoof show called Westenders.'
'Hmm, a long saga with no end in sight - that would be all I need, said Pangloss. Well, now you've brought up this author of dubious parentage, what do we know about him?'
'Well, since his mysterious appearance at the Eastphalia Conservative Club it seems he knows a bit of French.'
'French, eh? Didn't that use to be compulsory at school?'
'That's right, but the government has started phasing out learning GCSE French at school. Apparently it's all part of their new language learning strategy, although some cynics might say the reason was to improve league table results.'
'Look Charlie, state education's not really my thing. Just remind me, where did league tables come from and what are they for?'
'Oh, that's easy Pangloss, said Charlie. They were created by John Major's Conservative government in 1992 as part of the Citizens' Charter. The stated aim was to give parents the consumer information they needed to create a free market in school choice.'
'Golly, a free market in school choice? That sounds absolutely wizard. I bet it improved things no end. So everybody can choose which school they send their kids to now?'
'Goodness me yes, old boy, everything's about choice these days, and rightly so. For example, if people pay for exam coaching, and move to a better catchment area, and pretend to be religious long enough for the local vicar to write them a letter, why they've all got a fantastic choice.'
'And what about the people who can't afford to move house or hire an exam coach, or don't want to suddenly start going to church, what choice have they got?'
'Well, they've got a special choice called Hobson's choice. I'm not entirely sure how that works, because it doesn't really affect Conservative voters, but you see Pangloss, everyone is a winner. It's a wonderful system of equal opportunities whether you're rich or poor, and it was all put in place by John Major. I must confess I am a little puzzled though; I mean, when you have a choice, wouldn't everyone choose the best school? And then who would go the rubbish schools? I don't know, but New Labour are always talking about choice now, and David Cameron is always going on about choice, so the system must work, mustn't it? Education is so important for our young people, I just can't wait for David Cameron and his shadow cabinet colleagues to take charge of the country. I mean, who better to advise on state education than people who haven't had the misfortune to experience it? I expect when David Cameron takes over there will be so much choice that everyone will be able to go to Eton and then Oxford, and even join the Bullingdon Club if they want to.'
'Oh, goodness me, yes, said Pangloss, it certainly will be the best of all possible worlds when the Eton boys take over. I think they understand the lives of the ordinary man in the street so well.'
'Oh absolutely, agreed Charlie, and after all, there is a certain degree of intelligence that come with wealth.'
'Why, it's funny you should mention that, said Pangloss, because I can actually feel myself becoming more intelligent by the week, and do you know what I think it is? I think it's because every week I become a thousand pounds richer - it's cause and effect. Good grief, by the time my term in office comes to an end I'll be a quarter of million pounds more intelligent.'
'Really? said Charlie. Why's that then?'
'Oh, I don't know. Maybe it's this place.'
They were sitting in the bar of the Sailor's Return, a notorious watering hole on the harbour of Westphalia-on-Sea. Everyone thought they had seen the last of the landlord, Martin Aston, when he went bankrupt and lost all his businesses, but he had come back from the dead and was the new licensee at the Sailor's.
'Do you think it's because Martin shaves his beard a bit like that character Bepe from Eastenders?' suggested Charlie.
'Possibly. Or maybe its because a lot of my big ideas sound like the ridiculous plot lines of TV soaps.'
'Yes, that might be it, agreed Charlie. God, that would be horrible wouldn't it? Having the spotlight on you a few time times a week, everyone knowing exactly what you were doing and thinking. I certainly hope that bastard who's writing the Piddlebackside blog doesn't get any ideas, or the next thing we'll hear is that we're in a spoof show called Westenders.'
'Hmm, a long saga with no end in sight - that would be all I need, said Pangloss. Well, now you've brought up this author of dubious parentage, what do we know about him?'
'Well, since his mysterious appearance at the Eastphalia Conservative Club it seems he knows a bit of French.'
'French, eh? Didn't that use to be compulsory at school?'
'That's right, but the government has started phasing out learning GCSE French at school. Apparently it's all part of their new language learning strategy, although some cynics might say the reason was to improve league table results.'
'Look Charlie, state education's not really my thing. Just remind me, where did league tables come from and what are they for?'
'Oh, that's easy Pangloss, said Charlie. They were created by John Major's Conservative government in 1992 as part of the Citizens' Charter. The stated aim was to give parents the consumer information they needed to create a free market in school choice.'
'Golly, a free market in school choice? That sounds absolutely wizard. I bet it improved things no end. So everybody can choose which school they send their kids to now?'
'Goodness me yes, old boy, everything's about choice these days, and rightly so. For example, if people pay for exam coaching, and move to a better catchment area, and pretend to be religious long enough for the local vicar to write them a letter, why they've all got a fantastic choice.'
'And what about the people who can't afford to move house or hire an exam coach, or don't want to suddenly start going to church, what choice have they got?'
'Well, they've got a special choice called Hobson's choice. I'm not entirely sure how that works, because it doesn't really affect Conservative voters, but you see Pangloss, everyone is a winner. It's a wonderful system of equal opportunities whether you're rich or poor, and it was all put in place by John Major. I must confess I am a little puzzled though; I mean, when you have a choice, wouldn't everyone choose the best school? And then who would go the rubbish schools? I don't know, but New Labour are always talking about choice now, and David Cameron is always going on about choice, so the system must work, mustn't it? Education is so important for our young people, I just can't wait for David Cameron and his shadow cabinet colleagues to take charge of the country. I mean, who better to advise on state education than people who haven't had the misfortune to experience it? I expect when David Cameron takes over there will be so much choice that everyone will be able to go to Eton and then Oxford, and even join the Bullingdon Club if they want to.'
'Oh, goodness me, yes, said Pangloss, it certainly will be the best of all possible worlds when the Eton boys take over. I think they understand the lives of the ordinary man in the street so well.'
'Oh absolutely, agreed Charlie, and after all, there is a certain degree of intelligence that come with wealth.'
'Why, it's funny you should mention that, said Pangloss, because I can actually feel myself becoming more intelligent by the week, and do you know what I think it is? I think it's because every week I become a thousand pounds richer - it's cause and effect. Good grief, by the time my term in office comes to an end I'll be a quarter of million pounds more intelligent.'
Chapter 23 In which the man with no name rides into the Conservative Club
Down at the Conservative Club in Eastphalia very few people had turned up for the Halloween fancy dress party, and many of the regulars hadn't bothered to dress up. In one of the armchairs near the fire a copy of the Westphalia Express began to shake. It was being held by Bernard Fotherington-Smythe, and the reason for the shaking was his slowly building laughter. As his humour increased his jowly face began to move up and down, and he produced a laugh-come-cough which suggest the movement in his upper body had dislodged a certain amount of phlegm in his throat. 'Ha ha ha! That'll bloody show 'em! Agree with every word. Work shy buggers - take 'em out and flog 'em, I say.'
'What's that you're reading?' enquired the young councillor sitting at the bar. He was wearing a pin-stripe suit and some plastic devil's horns, and had come as a merchant banker. (In some parts of London that would have been Cockney rhyming slang, but as they were in Eastphalia it wasn't.)
'This letter of Charlie Windsor's about all these layabouts who won't work. He says we should refuse to pay their benefits when there are vacant jobs available - hit the bloody nail on the head, I say.'
'Oh, absolutely, replied the young councillor. We obviously have a lot in common. Let me introduce myself - Bob Hunt.'
'Pleased to meet you.'
'How would that work exactly?' asked a quiet, rather gravelly voice. Both men looked up. The man who had spoken was unknown to them. He was wearing a cowboy hat and poncho, had dark stubble on his chin and a cheroot in his mouth.
'Can't you read? shouted the barman, pointing to the no smoking sign.
'It's not lit, replied the stranger, without raising his voice.
'How would what work?' asked Bernard.
'I mean how would the 'not paying benefits system' work. replied the stranger. Presumably you'd stop housing benefit and any other handouts at the same time?'
Bob Hunt walked across the room, putting himself between the stranger and Bernard, saying: 'Let me handle this, old man.'
'Before we debate this point, how did you get in here? It's members only, and any guests have to be signed in. The club steward is very particular about that.'
The stranger placed an old-fashioned gold watch on the table next to him. When he opened it, it began playing a tune. 'Steward? Is that like a sheriff?' he asked.
'Well, yes, I suppose so.'
'Well, maybe you need a new steward,' said the stranger, still maintained his quiet tone of voice.
'Look, you can't just march in here and disagree with us. Who the ruddy hell are you?'
The stranger smiled. 'Let's just say I'm mid-forties, a graduate, local football fan, politics left of centre but not a member of any political party.'
'Oh, I see, said Hunt. Well, I happen to agree with Charlie Windsor. All benefits should be stopped.'
'Hmm, very easy to say, but not very practical - in fact I'd say impossible to implement. Just a headline grabber really. You'd create lots of homeless hungry people, wouldn't you? I mean what would you do, build workhouses and transport everyone back to the Victorian Age?'
'Well, maybe Charlie hasn't thought through the practicalities of the whole policy, but we've got this brilliant minimum wage now ...'
'Ah, yes, is that the minimum wage that the Tories were against? Didn't they say paying people a decent wage would bring down the economy?'
The barman was nervously polishing glasses. 'Look mister, he shouted over, we don't want no trouble here. We just want to discuss politics in our own particular fashion, if you get my meaning. We ain't doing no-one no harm. It ain't none of your business.'
'Well, friend, when people keep writing letters full o' horseshit to the local paper, I kinda think it is my business.'
'Look, you have absolutely no right ...,' began Hunt.
'Let me ask you this, said the stranger. If you have a benefits system which has created this situation, isn't it the system which is the problem?'
'Well, yes.'
'So why demonise the people? They're at the bottom of the food chain of your capitalist system. In that system there will always be losers. Your man Windsor is just scoring cheap political points. And why is it that some jobs pay so much more than others? Maybe he'd be better focusing on the obscene wealth at the other end of the system. If your binmen went on strike, there'd be chaos after a week. But what if estate agents went on strike? Or mayors? Or consultants? Do you think anyone would miss them if they stopped pitching in for work? No, this 'layabout rant' is fine for getting old Tories frothing at the mouth, but when you think about it sensibly it's just the same old horseshit.'
At that point the music stopped, and in a flash the stranger moved his hand towards his pocket. He pulled out a business card and handed it to Hunt. If you ever need a new steward, or if your town ever gets taken over by bandits, just give me a call.'
'Bandits? said Hunt staring at the small print on the card. That's highly unlikely. And we already have a mayor, thank you very much, so I don't think you'll be needed ... '
As he looked up from the card his voice trailed off. Both the stranger and the watch were gone.
'Well, spluttered Bernard Fotherington-Smythe, the damned impudence of the fellow. I'd like to horsewhip the blackguard. I'm going to see to it that his membership is cancelled.'
'He's not a member, you silly old sod,' said Hunt.
'Well who is he? What does it say on the card?'
'It doesn't have a name, it's just a sentence - in French.'
'French! French!' exploded Bernard. He speaks French? Good God! Isn't that an offence?'
'Not at the moment. Anyway, it says 'On ne peut pas tuer l'idee a coups de canon ni lui mettre les poucettes.'
'Well what does it mean?'
'How should I know? - My world stops at Dover as well. I'm just as bigoted and narrow-minded as you.'
'What's that you're reading?' enquired the young councillor sitting at the bar. He was wearing a pin-stripe suit and some plastic devil's horns, and had come as a merchant banker. (In some parts of London that would have been Cockney rhyming slang, but as they were in Eastphalia it wasn't.)
'This letter of Charlie Windsor's about all these layabouts who won't work. He says we should refuse to pay their benefits when there are vacant jobs available - hit the bloody nail on the head, I say.'
'Oh, absolutely, replied the young councillor. We obviously have a lot in common. Let me introduce myself - Bob Hunt.'
'Pleased to meet you.'
'How would that work exactly?' asked a quiet, rather gravelly voice. Both men looked up. The man who had spoken was unknown to them. He was wearing a cowboy hat and poncho, had dark stubble on his chin and a cheroot in his mouth.
'Can't you read? shouted the barman, pointing to the no smoking sign.
'It's not lit, replied the stranger, without raising his voice.
'How would what work?' asked Bernard.
'I mean how would the 'not paying benefits system' work. replied the stranger. Presumably you'd stop housing benefit and any other handouts at the same time?'
Bob Hunt walked across the room, putting himself between the stranger and Bernard, saying: 'Let me handle this, old man.'
'Before we debate this point, how did you get in here? It's members only, and any guests have to be signed in. The club steward is very particular about that.'
The stranger placed an old-fashioned gold watch on the table next to him. When he opened it, it began playing a tune. 'Steward? Is that like a sheriff?' he asked.
'Well, yes, I suppose so.'
'Well, maybe you need a new steward,' said the stranger, still maintained his quiet tone of voice.
'Look, you can't just march in here and disagree with us. Who the ruddy hell are you?'
The stranger smiled. 'Let's just say I'm mid-forties, a graduate, local football fan, politics left of centre but not a member of any political party.'
'Oh, I see, said Hunt. Well, I happen to agree with Charlie Windsor. All benefits should be stopped.'
'Hmm, very easy to say, but not very practical - in fact I'd say impossible to implement. Just a headline grabber really. You'd create lots of homeless hungry people, wouldn't you? I mean what would you do, build workhouses and transport everyone back to the Victorian Age?'
'Well, maybe Charlie hasn't thought through the practicalities of the whole policy, but we've got this brilliant minimum wage now ...'
'Ah, yes, is that the minimum wage that the Tories were against? Didn't they say paying people a decent wage would bring down the economy?'
The barman was nervously polishing glasses. 'Look mister, he shouted over, we don't want no trouble here. We just want to discuss politics in our own particular fashion, if you get my meaning. We ain't doing no-one no harm. It ain't none of your business.'
'Well, friend, when people keep writing letters full o' horseshit to the local paper, I kinda think it is my business.'
'Look, you have absolutely no right ...,' began Hunt.
'Let me ask you this, said the stranger. If you have a benefits system which has created this situation, isn't it the system which is the problem?'
'Well, yes.'
'So why demonise the people? They're at the bottom of the food chain of your capitalist system. In that system there will always be losers. Your man Windsor is just scoring cheap political points. And why is it that some jobs pay so much more than others? Maybe he'd be better focusing on the obscene wealth at the other end of the system. If your binmen went on strike, there'd be chaos after a week. But what if estate agents went on strike? Or mayors? Or consultants? Do you think anyone would miss them if they stopped pitching in for work? No, this 'layabout rant' is fine for getting old Tories frothing at the mouth, but when you think about it sensibly it's just the same old horseshit.'
At that point the music stopped, and in a flash the stranger moved his hand towards his pocket. He pulled out a business card and handed it to Hunt. If you ever need a new steward, or if your town ever gets taken over by bandits, just give me a call.'
'Bandits? said Hunt staring at the small print on the card. That's highly unlikely. And we already have a mayor, thank you very much, so I don't think you'll be needed ... '
As he looked up from the card his voice trailed off. Both the stranger and the watch were gone.
'Well, spluttered Bernard Fotherington-Smythe, the damned impudence of the fellow. I'd like to horsewhip the blackguard. I'm going to see to it that his membership is cancelled.'
'He's not a member, you silly old sod,' said Hunt.
'Well who is he? What does it say on the card?'
'It doesn't have a name, it's just a sentence - in French.'
'French! French!' exploded Bernard. He speaks French? Good God! Isn't that an offence?'
'Not at the moment. Anyway, it says 'On ne peut pas tuer l'idee a coups de canon ni lui mettre les poucettes.'
'Well what does it mean?'
'How should I know? - My world stops at Dover as well. I'm just as bigoted and narrow-minded as you.'
Chapter 22 In which the Piddlebackside blogger appears on the radio
Pangloss checked his watch; it was 11.59. He began singing the chorus of the old song of the same name to himself as he flicked his radio on ... 'It's eleven fifty-nine and I wanna stay alive ...'. He always made a point of listening to the phone-in on Radio Heaven. The presenter, Dustin Dee was just introducing the first topic for discussion: 'Heather Mills-McCartney has been asking people to boycott tabloid newspapers, so we just wondered if you have any strong views on the subject. Can you believe what you read, or are they just a bit of fun? Our first caller on the line is Richard in Plymhole. Hello Richard, what's the point you'd like to make?'
'Well, it's more of a question really - what's got three legs and lives on a farm?'
'I don't know,' replied Dustin.
'The McCartneys! Ha ha ha ha!'
'Hmm, yes, very funny, but that's a bit out of date now isn't it? Couldn't you have changed it to 'what's got three legs and hangs around a divorce court'?'
'Oh, I never thought of that. Well it still made I laff, anyway.'
'OK, well thank you for kicking off the show on that lighthearted note Richard. Now Mr Candide is on line 2.'
'Hello Dustin. I just wanted to make the point that our local paper is part of the newsgroup that owns the Daily Mail, so we don't really have a choice of whose opinion we read on local affairs. The Westphalia Express is always printing stories about big initiatives and plans the Mayor is having, but they never amount to anything. I don't know what to believe. The latest one is about turning the town into a city. Now is that going to happen, and is it his idea or his consultants'? And how much is he paying the consultants?'
'A good question. Actually we had Dr Pangloss in here a few weeks ago and he said the problem is the way the newspaper reports what he says.'
Pangloss's ears pricked up. Was this a coincidence that he was being discussed on the radio? Oh, he was just being paranoid, he thought. After all he was the Mayor. As he was thinking all this they began talking about a different topic.
'David in Exhole, what point would you like to make?'
'Hello Dustin. Well I sent off for my TV licence the other day during the postal strike and it took three weeks for them to ...'
'Yes, I'm losing the will to live here, David. Didn't you phone in about this tedious topic last week?'
'Well, yes, but you asked me to update you, and now they've debited the money from my account so ...'
'David, you didn't believe me, did you? I only said that to fill up some air time. Do you think anyone out there really gives a tuppenny toss about your frigging TV licence? Personally I'd rather push my testicles through a rusty mangle than listen to another syllable on the subject of your poxy TV licence. With any luck you'll be dead before the TV detector van gets to your house anyway. Right, Christine from Eastphalia is one line 7, go ahead Christine.'
'Yes, well it's about this change over to being a city. What I'd like to know is will we have to move house, or will they just give us a new postcode?'
'Oh, no, neither. It's just a renaming thing.'
'And will we still be able to get Freeview?'
'Yes, yes.'
'Well how will it affect us then?'
'Well it won't really. I doubt if anything will come of it any time soon, so don't worry. Now Mike is a keen indoor bowler from Newton Bumpkin - Mike?'
' 'Ello Dustin. Yes, well on the subject of Westphalia-on-Sea becoming a city, I was thinking this: that there Manchester is a city and they got one of they, whad'yacallits, er ... Gay Village, eb'n 'em? Well, will we 'ev one of they down 'ere too? My mate Terry, ... no, not like that, Dustin, I'm a married man; ... well, he says it would be a good idea cuz them there gays, they got loads of money to spend, but the only things is it's different, see. 'E 'eard it on the wireless. Turns out they got pink pounds. Well, 'ev you ever 'eard that? What would you do if you got give one of 'em in your change? I'm not sure I'd like that. Well, you dunno where they've bin, do 'ee?'
'Well, Mike it's like this: the pink pound is just a term ... oh, no, this'll be quicker. Look Mike, if anyone does give you a pink pound just take it to the post office and they'll change it for you, or you could save them up and spend them the next time you're in Manchester.'
'Right you are, Dustin. Thank you very much.'
'OK, Wilf on line 3 thinks Ken Dodd should be given a knighthood. And apparently you've organised an online petition on your website; is that right?'
'That's correct, yes, Dustin.'
'And what's this website called? No, let me guess, is it 'irritating old twat dot com'? 'Utterly pointless use of the internet dot com'?'
'No, it's knighthood for Knotty Ash dot com.'
'Yes, we'll I don't think this conversation can go much further without one of us screaming, so lets go to line 4.'
Pangloss's phone rang before he had time to catch the next topic of conversation. He heard the rather breathless voice of Charlie Windsor at the other end.
'Pangloss, I've just heard him on the radio.'
'Heard who?'
'The bloke who's writing the Piddlebackside blog.'
'Steady on, said Pangloss. I heard that too, but how do you know it's him?'
'Because on his blog this morning he left a message saying he'd be on it.'
'Oh, Christ, said Pangloss. It's bloody happening. Just like that journalist said it would. It's the space-time continuum thingy. I think he's messing with our mojo, Charlie.'
'Right that does it. As soon as my blood stops boiling about the EU treaty I'm going to leave a message on his bloody blog.'
'Yes, a dose of his own medicine. That'll teach him.'
'By the way Pangloss; would you like me to explain Gordon Brown's position on the EU treaty and opt-out clauses using the convoluted analogy of tie-wearing at a golf club?'
'Maybe another time, Charlie, maybe another time.'
'Well, it's more of a question really - what's got three legs and lives on a farm?'
'I don't know,' replied Dustin.
'The McCartneys! Ha ha ha ha!'
'Hmm, yes, very funny, but that's a bit out of date now isn't it? Couldn't you have changed it to 'what's got three legs and hangs around a divorce court'?'
'Oh, I never thought of that. Well it still made I laff, anyway.'
'OK, well thank you for kicking off the show on that lighthearted note Richard. Now Mr Candide is on line 2.'
'Hello Dustin. I just wanted to make the point that our local paper is part of the newsgroup that owns the Daily Mail, so we don't really have a choice of whose opinion we read on local affairs. The Westphalia Express is always printing stories about big initiatives and plans the Mayor is having, but they never amount to anything. I don't know what to believe. The latest one is about turning the town into a city. Now is that going to happen, and is it his idea or his consultants'? And how much is he paying the consultants?'
'A good question. Actually we had Dr Pangloss in here a few weeks ago and he said the problem is the way the newspaper reports what he says.'
Pangloss's ears pricked up. Was this a coincidence that he was being discussed on the radio? Oh, he was just being paranoid, he thought. After all he was the Mayor. As he was thinking all this they began talking about a different topic.
'David in Exhole, what point would you like to make?'
'Hello Dustin. Well I sent off for my TV licence the other day during the postal strike and it took three weeks for them to ...'
'Yes, I'm losing the will to live here, David. Didn't you phone in about this tedious topic last week?'
'Well, yes, but you asked me to update you, and now they've debited the money from my account so ...'
'David, you didn't believe me, did you? I only said that to fill up some air time. Do you think anyone out there really gives a tuppenny toss about your frigging TV licence? Personally I'd rather push my testicles through a rusty mangle than listen to another syllable on the subject of your poxy TV licence. With any luck you'll be dead before the TV detector van gets to your house anyway. Right, Christine from Eastphalia is one line 7, go ahead Christine.'
'Yes, well it's about this change over to being a city. What I'd like to know is will we have to move house, or will they just give us a new postcode?'
'Oh, no, neither. It's just a renaming thing.'
'And will we still be able to get Freeview?'
'Yes, yes.'
'Well how will it affect us then?'
'Well it won't really. I doubt if anything will come of it any time soon, so don't worry. Now Mike is a keen indoor bowler from Newton Bumpkin - Mike?'
' 'Ello Dustin. Yes, well on the subject of Westphalia-on-Sea becoming a city, I was thinking this: that there Manchester is a city and they got one of they, whad'yacallits, er ... Gay Village, eb'n 'em? Well, will we 'ev one of they down 'ere too? My mate Terry, ... no, not like that, Dustin, I'm a married man; ... well, he says it would be a good idea cuz them there gays, they got loads of money to spend, but the only things is it's different, see. 'E 'eard it on the wireless. Turns out they got pink pounds. Well, 'ev you ever 'eard that? What would you do if you got give one of 'em in your change? I'm not sure I'd like that. Well, you dunno where they've bin, do 'ee?'
'Well, Mike it's like this: the pink pound is just a term ... oh, no, this'll be quicker. Look Mike, if anyone does give you a pink pound just take it to the post office and they'll change it for you, or you could save them up and spend them the next time you're in Manchester.'
'Right you are, Dustin. Thank you very much.'
'OK, Wilf on line 3 thinks Ken Dodd should be given a knighthood. And apparently you've organised an online petition on your website; is that right?'
'That's correct, yes, Dustin.'
'And what's this website called? No, let me guess, is it 'irritating old twat dot com'? 'Utterly pointless use of the internet dot com'?'
'No, it's knighthood for Knotty Ash dot com.'
'Yes, we'll I don't think this conversation can go much further without one of us screaming, so lets go to line 4.'
Pangloss's phone rang before he had time to catch the next topic of conversation. He heard the rather breathless voice of Charlie Windsor at the other end.
'Pangloss, I've just heard him on the radio.'
'Heard who?'
'The bloke who's writing the Piddlebackside blog.'
'Steady on, said Pangloss. I heard that too, but how do you know it's him?'
'Because on his blog this morning he left a message saying he'd be on it.'
'Oh, Christ, said Pangloss. It's bloody happening. Just like that journalist said it would. It's the space-time continuum thingy. I think he's messing with our mojo, Charlie.'
'Right that does it. As soon as my blood stops boiling about the EU treaty I'm going to leave a message on his bloody blog.'
'Yes, a dose of his own medicine. That'll teach him.'
'By the way Pangloss; would you like me to explain Gordon Brown's position on the EU treaty and opt-out clauses using the convoluted analogy of tie-wearing at a golf club?'
'Maybe another time, Charlie, maybe another time.'
Chapter 21 In which Leyland warns of the excesses of a state-controlled media
'Back in the dark days of communism in Eastern Europe life for the people of Romania under the dictatorship of Nikolae Ceausescu was particularly grim,' began Leyland.
'Look do we really have time for this? interrupted Pangloss. You just told me the time-space continuum has been interefered with and events are hurtling through space towards me. I thought I detected a note of urgency in your voice.'
'Yes, you did, but don't worry. This is just a device to build tension; they do it all the time in films. We've got plenty of time.'
'Oh, right. Well, in that case, shall I ask Jenny to bring in some tea?'
'Er, no, I'm fine thanks. Anyway, poverty was rife, food was scarce, abortion was made illegal, and divorce was pretty much impossible. Practically the only thing to brighten this existence were a few western television programmes; two favourites were, strangely enough, the films of Norman Wisdom and the BBC series The Onedin Line. However, after visiting North Korea Ceausescu decided that his people were having far too much fun and being corrupted by western decadence; the transmission of TV programmes was greatly reduced, and at the same time popular prime time broadcasts were replaced by images of military parades accompanied by patriotic music. This was not to most Romanians' taste, so people in parts of the country where Hungarian TV channels could be received began learning Hungarian, and others tuned their radios to stations like Radio Free Europe and the Voice of America, effectively by-passing the state-controlled media. The result of this was that years later, when there were small uprisings against the dictatorship, the news travelled around the country like wildfire, even though it was not reported by Romanian TV or radio.'
'Yes, yes, a very interesting history lesson, I'm sure, said Pangloss impatiently, but what has all that got to do with this blog?'
'I'm merely pointing out that where the ruling party or person monopolises the media, constantly spinning stories that everything is wonderful, the people will simply look for other ways of getting unbiased information. The Piddlebackside blog may have started as a lighthearted joke, but the speed with which it has gained a dedicated following suggests that you are only fooling a very small section of the people now. You can have your photo taken all over town and talk about a garden city and roads with new trees planted alongside and a new name and all the other tosh, but who do you honestly think believes you? The people want a town centre where they can shop, a decent bus service, somewhere for the kids to play, all the things that make a place worth living in. They're not fooled by grand initiatives and slick presentations, and they certainly don't want to see their hard earned cash going into the pockets of consultants.'
''An impassioned speech, Mr Leyland. I trust none of that will find its way on to the Piddlebackside blog?'
'Of course not, you have my word as a journalist. Anyway, to finish my story, it's a strange coincidence that the defining moment in the Romanian revolution was when Ceausescu and his wife were spontaneously booed by a crowd in Revolution Square in Bucharest.'
'Yes, well, after those moaning Romanian Victor Meldrew-types had got it off their chest with a little booing I'm sure they all went home and forgot all about it,' said Pangloss.
'Not exactly. Once the Ceausescus were captured they had a brief trial on Xmas Day and were then taken outside and shot.'
'That could never happen here though, could it?' said Pangloss.
'Of course not. You'd be hard pushed to get so much as a pint of milk round here on Xmas Day; I really can't see anyone organising a firing squad.'
'Well, that's a relief. I was planning on spending Xmas at mother's. Her roast potatoes are to die for. She par boils them and then fluffs them up with a fork before putting them in the oven.'
'Crispy, I'll bet.'
'Absolutely.'
'Well, anyway, I didn't come here to swap recipes. I just want to point out that if you have a stranglehold over the newspapers people will begin to move away to the internet, where news travels so much faster, especially bad news. Your critics may even begin to use radio phone-ins to air their complaints. The presenter on Radio Heaven is always trying to fill the two-hour slot on his midday show.'
'So what do you suggest I do?'
'It's not my job to give you answers. I'm a journalist. I just write down the facts in a way that my editor thinks the owner of the newspaper would like to read them. Now, I've got to go. Thanks for the interview - your answers were very, er, ... enlightening. Don't forget to listen to the radio.'
'Look do we really have time for this? interrupted Pangloss. You just told me the time-space continuum has been interefered with and events are hurtling through space towards me. I thought I detected a note of urgency in your voice.'
'Yes, you did, but don't worry. This is just a device to build tension; they do it all the time in films. We've got plenty of time.'
'Oh, right. Well, in that case, shall I ask Jenny to bring in some tea?'
'Er, no, I'm fine thanks. Anyway, poverty was rife, food was scarce, abortion was made illegal, and divorce was pretty much impossible. Practically the only thing to brighten this existence were a few western television programmes; two favourites were, strangely enough, the films of Norman Wisdom and the BBC series The Onedin Line. However, after visiting North Korea Ceausescu decided that his people were having far too much fun and being corrupted by western decadence; the transmission of TV programmes was greatly reduced, and at the same time popular prime time broadcasts were replaced by images of military parades accompanied by patriotic music. This was not to most Romanians' taste, so people in parts of the country where Hungarian TV channels could be received began learning Hungarian, and others tuned their radios to stations like Radio Free Europe and the Voice of America, effectively by-passing the state-controlled media. The result of this was that years later, when there were small uprisings against the dictatorship, the news travelled around the country like wildfire, even though it was not reported by Romanian TV or radio.'
'Yes, yes, a very interesting history lesson, I'm sure, said Pangloss impatiently, but what has all that got to do with this blog?'
'I'm merely pointing out that where the ruling party or person monopolises the media, constantly spinning stories that everything is wonderful, the people will simply look for other ways of getting unbiased information. The Piddlebackside blog may have started as a lighthearted joke, but the speed with which it has gained a dedicated following suggests that you are only fooling a very small section of the people now. You can have your photo taken all over town and talk about a garden city and roads with new trees planted alongside and a new name and all the other tosh, but who do you honestly think believes you? The people want a town centre where they can shop, a decent bus service, somewhere for the kids to play, all the things that make a place worth living in. They're not fooled by grand initiatives and slick presentations, and they certainly don't want to see their hard earned cash going into the pockets of consultants.'
''An impassioned speech, Mr Leyland. I trust none of that will find its way on to the Piddlebackside blog?'
'Of course not, you have my word as a journalist. Anyway, to finish my story, it's a strange coincidence that the defining moment in the Romanian revolution was when Ceausescu and his wife were spontaneously booed by a crowd in Revolution Square in Bucharest.'
'Yes, well, after those moaning Romanian Victor Meldrew-types had got it off their chest with a little booing I'm sure they all went home and forgot all about it,' said Pangloss.
'Not exactly. Once the Ceausescus were captured they had a brief trial on Xmas Day and were then taken outside and shot.'
'That could never happen here though, could it?' said Pangloss.
'Of course not. You'd be hard pushed to get so much as a pint of milk round here on Xmas Day; I really can't see anyone organising a firing squad.'
'Well, that's a relief. I was planning on spending Xmas at mother's. Her roast potatoes are to die for. She par boils them and then fluffs them up with a fork before putting them in the oven.'
'Crispy, I'll bet.'
'Absolutely.'
'Well, anyway, I didn't come here to swap recipes. I just want to point out that if you have a stranglehold over the newspapers people will begin to move away to the internet, where news travels so much faster, especially bad news. Your critics may even begin to use radio phone-ins to air their complaints. The presenter on Radio Heaven is always trying to fill the two-hour slot on his midday show.'
'So what do you suggest I do?'
'It's not my job to give you answers. I'm a journalist. I just write down the facts in a way that my editor thinks the owner of the newspaper would like to read them. Now, I've got to go. Thanks for the interview - your answers were very, er, ... enlightening. Don't forget to listen to the radio.'
Chapter 20 In which Martin Leyland interviews Pangloss
Dr Pangloss was reclining in his sumptuous office chair with the blinds closed when his intercom buzzer sounded. He leaned forward and said: 'I thought I said no calls Jenny?'
'Yes, I know his secretary replied. But this caller is very persistent, and you have been in there for two hours now.'
'Good God, so I have, said Pangloss, eyeing the clock. OK, I'll take the call.'
'Dr Pangloss, said the voice at the other end of the line, thank you for taking the time to speak to me. My name is Martin Leyland. I'm a freelance journalist, and I've just come across this bizarre story of the Piddlebackside blog on the internet - it contains some striking similarities to Westphalia-on-Sea, and one of the characters, a Mr Reinhard Longpass, bears more than a passing resemblance to yourself. Are you familiar with the blog?'
'Well, I've heard about it, but I haven't actually read any of it. You must understand that as mayor I don't get a great deal of time to devote to such trivia. As you may be aware I am in the middle of building a city here - Rome wasn't built in a day, you know.'
'I fully understand, Your Worshipfulness. It must be be a stressful and sometimes thankless task leading a town, or city, with such courage.'
'Why yes, it is as a matter of fact, that's very insightful Mr Leyland, you have a way with words.'
'Thank you, your Holiness. Actually I'm a city boy myself, grew up in Birminghole, and I do miss things like wide boulevards with street performers and an edgy bohemian art scene terribly, so I fully understand what you're trying to do here.'
'Goodness, a sympathetic voice in the wilderness.'
'Thank you, your Majesty. Look, I'm going to write a short piece about this blog which may be syndicated around a few local papers. How about we meet up and I give you the chance to give your side of the story, set the record straight, etcetera? Fifteen minutes of your time for a quick interview?'
'Well, I'm fairly busy tomorrow, I think I'm seeing ...'
'Are you doing anything now?'
'Well not really.'
'OK, that's settled; I'll pop down if you're free. Strike while the iron's hot, and all that.'
In what seemed like minutes, Martin Leyland was sitting opposite Pangloss. The office was rather dark as the blinds were still closed. Leyland was looking intently at his mobile when Pangloss broke the silence: 'Are you going to use your dictaphone?' he asked.
'No, I'll use my finger, replied the journalist. Oh sorry, I see what you mean. Yes I've got a tape recorder in my bag.'
Leyland tested his tape recorder and then asked his first question.
'OK, let's get started; what's your favourite colour?'
'Blue.'
'Do you like puppies?'
'Oh, yes.' Pangloss smiled for the first time in ages; this was going rather well.
'Right. Now you were booed by the whole crowd at Westphalia United at the weekend, is that correct?'
'Well ..., err ...., yes, in a manner of speaking.'
'So would it be fair to say you are deeply unpopular with a large cross-section of the town?'
'I'm not sure 'deeply' is the right adjective,' objected Pangloss.
'Really? You were voted in with the support of just seven per cent of the electorate, and since then you have courted controversy with a number of bizarre high profile strategies and been booed at a local football match. What adjective do you think would be more fitting than 'deeply', then?'
'Er, I'm not really sure,' said Pangloss.
'How much support do you think you'd have if there was an election tomorrow?'
'I'm not sure.'
'More or less than seven per cent?'
'I don't know.'
'Would you want to do this job if you felt you didn't have the support of the people?'
'I'm not really sure,' stammered Pangloss.
'OK, let's move on. Now, according to the Westphalia-on-Sea Council Constitution, the residents of this town are stuck with you until May 2011. Now, if it became clear that you had utterly lost the support of the people, would you do the honourable thing and stand down before then, or at least call another election?'
'Now, hang on a minute ...'
'You enjoy unparalleled support from the local paper, and have a regular column in it, so why do you think you are such an unpopular figure?'
'Well, look, I'm not sure that's wholly ...'
'How much have you spent on the services of consultants, and how much more do you intend to spend?'
'Well, that's very difficult to say at this precise moment in time. Two heads are better than one, and I'm not a man with two brains. The whole process of urban regeneration and the ideas that drive it is, by it's very nature, ipso facto coitus interruptus, extremely expensive.'
'OK, moving on: you've heard about this blog; what's your take on it?'
'Oh, it sounds like a bit of harmless fun. I'm sure whoever's writing it will soon run out of steam, and if not steam, then ideas.'
'So you're not unduly worried about the rather bizarre way that time is related between Piddlebackside and Westphalia-on-Sea, then?'
'What exactly do you mean? I don't understand. Like I said, I haven't read it first hand.'
'Well, let me explain. It begins with the mayoral election in Piddlebackside, which to everyone's horror is won by Reinhard Longpass, a rather clueless bumbling Conservative with no real life experience. It then covers a period of approximately two years, in which Longpass makes a number of catastrophically brainless decisions. Through a series of flashbacks it is revealed that as a child Longpass had an accident which resulted in a serious cranial trauma. He survived, but during the life-saving surgery at an underfunded hospital the neurosurgeon was forced to cut a three-inch hole in the top of his skull, scoop his brains out with a rusty spoon and fill the resulting cavity with porridge. It soon becomes clear that this procedure in childhood strongly influences much of his day-to-day decision-making. There is one other very far-fetched storyline in which a committed group of Piddlebackside atheists are promised absolutely nothing in the afterlife, but nevertheless selflessly volunteer for a suicide mission to take out the Mayor while he is judging a novelty cake competition at the Women's Guild. Apart from these rather silly scenes events in Piddlebackside closely mimic what has been happening in Westphalia-on-Sea.'
'I see. Does the Mayor suggest any rebranding and renaming of Piddlebackside?'
'Absolutely. A very convincing argument is made for taking the 'Piddle' out, and then, strangely enough, it is mysteriously put back in.'
'I see. Well, I can see certain parallels with some of the bold and innovative moves I have been making in Westphalia-on-Sea, but I still don't see any great problem.'
'The problem, Dr Pangloss is simply this: the time difference between the events in the fictitious Piddlebackside and the events in the very real Westphalia-on-Sea is growing ever smaller as we speak. The embarrassing booing at Piddlebackside Rovers came two weeks after the real event at Westphalia United. Now look at this.'
With a flourish he pulled out a copy of the Westphalia Express and turned to Pangloss's column.
'In this column on 26 October you compared the moaning residents of Westphalia-on-Sea to Victor Meldrew. In the blog about Piddlebackside the Victor Meldrew reference appeared the day after, on 27 October.'
'I still don't see the point.'
'The point is, Dr Pangloss, that the space-time continuum is being interfered with. The lampooning versions of events in Piddlebackside are travelling too fast over the internet, zooming towards your real pronouncements in Westphalia-on-Sea in the print media. If they are allowed to collide, and they are surely on course to do that over the next few days, then the atomic particles of the two events will be forever fused together. The result? In the future everyone will know you are talking bollocks, simply because your lips are moving.'
Pangloss was white. 'Oh my God, he said. Then they have to be stopped. Whoever's writing this blog about Piddlebackside must be stopped. Who's writing it? Get them on the phone and let's start negotiating, but let's not rule out breaking all their fingers.'
'There are two problems with that plan, Dr Pangloss, said Leyland. The first is that the blog is anonymous, so you don't know who's behind it. And the second is that even if you did know the author's identity, there would be a debate to be had about the freedom of speech. Now, before you do something you'll regret, let me tell you a cautionary tale about prohibiting the dissemination of information ...'
'Yes, I know his secretary replied. But this caller is very persistent, and you have been in there for two hours now.'
'Good God, so I have, said Pangloss, eyeing the clock. OK, I'll take the call.'
'Dr Pangloss, said the voice at the other end of the line, thank you for taking the time to speak to me. My name is Martin Leyland. I'm a freelance journalist, and I've just come across this bizarre story of the Piddlebackside blog on the internet - it contains some striking similarities to Westphalia-on-Sea, and one of the characters, a Mr Reinhard Longpass, bears more than a passing resemblance to yourself. Are you familiar with the blog?'
'Well, I've heard about it, but I haven't actually read any of it. You must understand that as mayor I don't get a great deal of time to devote to such trivia. As you may be aware I am in the middle of building a city here - Rome wasn't built in a day, you know.'
'I fully understand, Your Worshipfulness. It must be be a stressful and sometimes thankless task leading a town, or city, with such courage.'
'Why yes, it is as a matter of fact, that's very insightful Mr Leyland, you have a way with words.'
'Thank you, your Holiness. Actually I'm a city boy myself, grew up in Birminghole, and I do miss things like wide boulevards with street performers and an edgy bohemian art scene terribly, so I fully understand what you're trying to do here.'
'Goodness, a sympathetic voice in the wilderness.'
'Thank you, your Majesty. Look, I'm going to write a short piece about this blog which may be syndicated around a few local papers. How about we meet up and I give you the chance to give your side of the story, set the record straight, etcetera? Fifteen minutes of your time for a quick interview?'
'Well, I'm fairly busy tomorrow, I think I'm seeing ...'
'Are you doing anything now?'
'Well not really.'
'OK, that's settled; I'll pop down if you're free. Strike while the iron's hot, and all that.'
In what seemed like minutes, Martin Leyland was sitting opposite Pangloss. The office was rather dark as the blinds were still closed. Leyland was looking intently at his mobile when Pangloss broke the silence: 'Are you going to use your dictaphone?' he asked.
'No, I'll use my finger, replied the journalist. Oh sorry, I see what you mean. Yes I've got a tape recorder in my bag.'
Leyland tested his tape recorder and then asked his first question.
'OK, let's get started; what's your favourite colour?'
'Blue.'
'Do you like puppies?'
'Oh, yes.' Pangloss smiled for the first time in ages; this was going rather well.
'Right. Now you were booed by the whole crowd at Westphalia United at the weekend, is that correct?'
'Well ..., err ...., yes, in a manner of speaking.'
'So would it be fair to say you are deeply unpopular with a large cross-section of the town?'
'I'm not sure 'deeply' is the right adjective,' objected Pangloss.
'Really? You were voted in with the support of just seven per cent of the electorate, and since then you have courted controversy with a number of bizarre high profile strategies and been booed at a local football match. What adjective do you think would be more fitting than 'deeply', then?'
'Er, I'm not really sure,' said Pangloss.
'How much support do you think you'd have if there was an election tomorrow?'
'I'm not sure.'
'More or less than seven per cent?'
'I don't know.'
'Would you want to do this job if you felt you didn't have the support of the people?'
'I'm not really sure,' stammered Pangloss.
'OK, let's move on. Now, according to the Westphalia-on-Sea Council Constitution, the residents of this town are stuck with you until May 2011. Now, if it became clear that you had utterly lost the support of the people, would you do the honourable thing and stand down before then, or at least call another election?'
'Now, hang on a minute ...'
'You enjoy unparalleled support from the local paper, and have a regular column in it, so why do you think you are such an unpopular figure?'
'Well, look, I'm not sure that's wholly ...'
'How much have you spent on the services of consultants, and how much more do you intend to spend?'
'Well, that's very difficult to say at this precise moment in time. Two heads are better than one, and I'm not a man with two brains. The whole process of urban regeneration and the ideas that drive it is, by it's very nature, ipso facto coitus interruptus, extremely expensive.'
'OK, moving on: you've heard about this blog; what's your take on it?'
'Oh, it sounds like a bit of harmless fun. I'm sure whoever's writing it will soon run out of steam, and if not steam, then ideas.'
'So you're not unduly worried about the rather bizarre way that time is related between Piddlebackside and Westphalia-on-Sea, then?'
'What exactly do you mean? I don't understand. Like I said, I haven't read it first hand.'
'Well, let me explain. It begins with the mayoral election in Piddlebackside, which to everyone's horror is won by Reinhard Longpass, a rather clueless bumbling Conservative with no real life experience. It then covers a period of approximately two years, in which Longpass makes a number of catastrophically brainless decisions. Through a series of flashbacks it is revealed that as a child Longpass had an accident which resulted in a serious cranial trauma. He survived, but during the life-saving surgery at an underfunded hospital the neurosurgeon was forced to cut a three-inch hole in the top of his skull, scoop his brains out with a rusty spoon and fill the resulting cavity with porridge. It soon becomes clear that this procedure in childhood strongly influences much of his day-to-day decision-making. There is one other very far-fetched storyline in which a committed group of Piddlebackside atheists are promised absolutely nothing in the afterlife, but nevertheless selflessly volunteer for a suicide mission to take out the Mayor while he is judging a novelty cake competition at the Women's Guild. Apart from these rather silly scenes events in Piddlebackside closely mimic what has been happening in Westphalia-on-Sea.'
'I see. Does the Mayor suggest any rebranding and renaming of Piddlebackside?'
'Absolutely. A very convincing argument is made for taking the 'Piddle' out, and then, strangely enough, it is mysteriously put back in.'
'I see. Well, I can see certain parallels with some of the bold and innovative moves I have been making in Westphalia-on-Sea, but I still don't see any great problem.'
'The problem, Dr Pangloss is simply this: the time difference between the events in the fictitious Piddlebackside and the events in the very real Westphalia-on-Sea is growing ever smaller as we speak. The embarrassing booing at Piddlebackside Rovers came two weeks after the real event at Westphalia United. Now look at this.'
With a flourish he pulled out a copy of the Westphalia Express and turned to Pangloss's column.
'In this column on 26 October you compared the moaning residents of Westphalia-on-Sea to Victor Meldrew. In the blog about Piddlebackside the Victor Meldrew reference appeared the day after, on 27 October.'
'I still don't see the point.'
'The point is, Dr Pangloss, that the space-time continuum is being interfered with. The lampooning versions of events in Piddlebackside are travelling too fast over the internet, zooming towards your real pronouncements in Westphalia-on-Sea in the print media. If they are allowed to collide, and they are surely on course to do that over the next few days, then the atomic particles of the two events will be forever fused together. The result? In the future everyone will know you are talking bollocks, simply because your lips are moving.'
Pangloss was white. 'Oh my God, he said. Then they have to be stopped. Whoever's writing this blog about Piddlebackside must be stopped. Who's writing it? Get them on the phone and let's start negotiating, but let's not rule out breaking all their fingers.'
'There are two problems with that plan, Dr Pangloss, said Leyland. The first is that the blog is anonymous, so you don't know who's behind it. And the second is that even if you did know the author's identity, there would be a debate to be had about the freedom of speech. Now, before you do something you'll regret, let me tell you a cautionary tale about prohibiting the dissemination of information ...'
(to be continued ...)
Chapter 19 In which Charlie Windsor gives Pangloss some bad news
Following the 'incident' at the football match, Pangloss was feeling rather down in the dumps, and was reluctant to pick up the ringing phone in his office in case it was more bad news. He let it ring at least twelve times, but eventually succumbed.
'Hello, Pangloss here,' he said wearily.
'Morning Pangloss, how was your weekend?' Pangloss sighed audibly with relief; it was Charlie Windsor, one of his few political allies.
'Hmm, I've had better, said Pangloss, feeling his cheeks redden slightly as he momentarily relived his time on the pitch at Westphalia United. Anyway, what do you want?'
'Sorry to hear that, old man. Well, if you're not in a good mood, what I've got to say isn't going to make you feel any better.'
'Oh Christ, what now?'
'Well, you know I have a blog ...'
'No, I didn't. I don't even know what a blog is.'
'Oh, get with it Pangloss. A blog is like an online diary, where you can record your every thought.'
'It sounds great. and you have one?'
'Yes. http://www.charliewindsor.blogspot.com/. All my political pearls of wisdom are recorded there, accessible to millions of people.'
'Brilliant! How many people read it then?'
'Well, judging by my online EU treaty poll, I'd say, oh, somewhere in the region of ... five.'
'Five million!?'
'No, five.'
'Five? Isn't the whole thing a bit of a waste of time then? Doesn't that mean that no-one is remotely interested in anything you've got to say?'
'Well, yes ... no, look, that's not the point. The point is after I posted my thoughts on the EU Treaty I had a message from David Cameron.'
'That's great - if he's one of your five readers I take it all back.'
'Of course he isn't - it's someone messing about. But whoever it was left the address of another blog, which I read out of curiosity.'
'And ...?'
'Well, this other blog is actually a story set in the fictitious town of Piddlebackside, but it appears to be about you ... and me.'
'Fame at last! Can I read it?'
'Well yes, but it's not what you'd call ... supportive. It takes a rather more, how shall I put this? Critical angle on what you've been up to. In fact it goes further than that - it blows the lid right off your big ideas strategy, the consultants, everything.'
'Christ on a bike! It doesn't mention the name change does it?'
'Which one?'
'Both. Either.'
' 'Fraid so.'
'Selling off the pub on the beach to the property developer?'
'Yep.'
'The high-speed ferry?'
'The whole bloody shooting match, I'm afraid, old man.'
Pangloss felt his legs go to jelly. All that stuff should have been forgotten about ages ago.
'Doesn't mention the football match, does it?'
'Yes, now that was quite funny, actually ...'
Pangloss could still hear Charlie in full flow as he hung up the phone. He buzzed through to his secretary and said: 'No calls for the next hour please Jenny; I'm feeling unwell.'
'Hello, Pangloss here,' he said wearily.
'Morning Pangloss, how was your weekend?' Pangloss sighed audibly with relief; it was Charlie Windsor, one of his few political allies.
'Hmm, I've had better, said Pangloss, feeling his cheeks redden slightly as he momentarily relived his time on the pitch at Westphalia United. Anyway, what do you want?'
'Sorry to hear that, old man. Well, if you're not in a good mood, what I've got to say isn't going to make you feel any better.'
'Oh Christ, what now?'
'Well, you know I have a blog ...'
'No, I didn't. I don't even know what a blog is.'
'Oh, get with it Pangloss. A blog is like an online diary, where you can record your every thought.'
'It sounds great. and you have one?'
'Yes. http://www.charliewindsor.blogspot.com/. All my political pearls of wisdom are recorded there, accessible to millions of people.'
'Brilliant! How many people read it then?'
'Well, judging by my online EU treaty poll, I'd say, oh, somewhere in the region of ... five.'
'Five million!?'
'No, five.'
'Five? Isn't the whole thing a bit of a waste of time then? Doesn't that mean that no-one is remotely interested in anything you've got to say?'
'Well, yes ... no, look, that's not the point. The point is after I posted my thoughts on the EU Treaty I had a message from David Cameron.'
'That's great - if he's one of your five readers I take it all back.'
'Of course he isn't - it's someone messing about. But whoever it was left the address of another blog, which I read out of curiosity.'
'And ...?'
'Well, this other blog is actually a story set in the fictitious town of Piddlebackside, but it appears to be about you ... and me.'
'Fame at last! Can I read it?'
'Well yes, but it's not what you'd call ... supportive. It takes a rather more, how shall I put this? Critical angle on what you've been up to. In fact it goes further than that - it blows the lid right off your big ideas strategy, the consultants, everything.'
'Christ on a bike! It doesn't mention the name change does it?'
'Which one?'
'Both. Either.'
' 'Fraid so.'
'Selling off the pub on the beach to the property developer?'
'Yep.'
'The high-speed ferry?'
'The whole bloody shooting match, I'm afraid, old man.'
Pangloss felt his legs go to jelly. All that stuff should have been forgotten about ages ago.
'Doesn't mention the football match, does it?'
'Yes, now that was quite funny, actually ...'
Pangloss could still hear Charlie in full flow as he hung up the phone. He buzzed through to his secretary and said: 'No calls for the next hour please Jenny; I'm feeling unwell.'
Chapter 18 In which Charlie Windsor arrives in town
Charlie Windsor arrived in Wesphalia-on-Sea in 2002, a fast-track candidate who could depend on the support of the big guns in the Conservative Party. As he looked out of the window at, ... well, he wasn't sure where it was exactly that he was looking at, but as he looked out of the window at it he said to himself: 'This is my Holy Grail; one day all of this will be mine.'
'What, the curtains?' Asked his wife, who had just come into the room.
'No, not the bloody curtains. this place. West or Eastphalia, or Fishhole, whatever it is that we can see out of the window.'
'Oh, I see.'
'Do you know, darling, I feel as though I'm on a mission. I feel the hand of history on my shoulder. I think I'll paraphrase Jonathan Aitken in my first speech to the local party members. He cleared his throat and began: 'If it falls to me to start a fight to cut out the yellow cancer of Liberal-Democracy in Westphalia-on-Sea with the simple sword of truth and the trusty shield of British fair play, so be it.'
'Very impressive, darling, I'm sure. Now I'm just popping out to the shops. Oh, but maybe that Aitken fellow isn't such a good role model; didn't he commit perjury and end up in the nick? Bye!'
'Yes, bye, darling.'
Charlie's brief from Conservative Central Office had been simple. Get yourself settled in, then start getting yourself known. Write to the local paper, and then try and get your face in the rag as often as possible. People needed to know who he was and what he stood for. When he asked them what they did stand for they weren't quite sure, but they'd cross that bridge when they came to it. It seemed straightforward enough, but there was a slight problem - attacking Labour, as the party leadership did day-in, day-out, wasn't going to get him very far, because Westphalia-on-Sea didn't have, in fact, had never had, a Labour MP, and was very unlikely to have one any time soon. No, our Charlie was going to have to attack the Lib-Dem MP, Brian Localbloke. Of course, the only problem with this was that Brian seemed to be fairly well liked in the town - he had grown up in Eastphalia, went to school in Westphalia-on-Sea and was an avid fan of Westphalia United, getting to as many games as his Westminster commitments would allow. No, Charlie had to play this one very carefully, or the whole plan might blow up in his face. Charlie discussed the conundrum with party officials, and they advised having a go at the local Lib-Dem council. Local councillors were often unpopular, so if he could build up a bit of momentum against them, some of the shit might just stick to Localbloke.
Charlie set about his task with gusto. He had to phrase his letters very carefully at first, because in the early days, being an outsider, he didn't know shit from shite where local politics and the local area were concerned. A few locals rumbled him straightaway, but his letters were so tediously dull that most people just ignored him and hoped he'd just go away. As the months turned to years he became bolder, and began referring to 'the many years of Lib-Dem mismanagement', implying that he had lived in Westphalia-on-Sea a lot longer than he actually had. He lost the 2005 election, but he decided to stick around and have one more go at getting on the Westminster gravy train. Yes, he could spend another couple of years telling any Westphalian that would listen how Baghdad was better than this place; his only fear was that as he ran the place down no-one would ask him the really tricky question, namely 'why had he moved to this dismal shithole in the first place?'
So dear readers, this explains why our intrepid Mayor, Dr Pangloss, had such a vocal supporter in Charlie Windsor.
'What, the curtains?' Asked his wife, who had just come into the room.
'No, not the bloody curtains. this place. West or Eastphalia, or Fishhole, whatever it is that we can see out of the window.'
'Oh, I see.'
'Do you know, darling, I feel as though I'm on a mission. I feel the hand of history on my shoulder. I think I'll paraphrase Jonathan Aitken in my first speech to the local party members. He cleared his throat and began: 'If it falls to me to start a fight to cut out the yellow cancer of Liberal-Democracy in Westphalia-on-Sea with the simple sword of truth and the trusty shield of British fair play, so be it.'
'Very impressive, darling, I'm sure. Now I'm just popping out to the shops. Oh, but maybe that Aitken fellow isn't such a good role model; didn't he commit perjury and end up in the nick? Bye!'
'Yes, bye, darling.'
Charlie's brief from Conservative Central Office had been simple. Get yourself settled in, then start getting yourself known. Write to the local paper, and then try and get your face in the rag as often as possible. People needed to know who he was and what he stood for. When he asked them what they did stand for they weren't quite sure, but they'd cross that bridge when they came to it. It seemed straightforward enough, but there was a slight problem - attacking Labour, as the party leadership did day-in, day-out, wasn't going to get him very far, because Westphalia-on-Sea didn't have, in fact, had never had, a Labour MP, and was very unlikely to have one any time soon. No, our Charlie was going to have to attack the Lib-Dem MP, Brian Localbloke. Of course, the only problem with this was that Brian seemed to be fairly well liked in the town - he had grown up in Eastphalia, went to school in Westphalia-on-Sea and was an avid fan of Westphalia United, getting to as many games as his Westminster commitments would allow. No, Charlie had to play this one very carefully, or the whole plan might blow up in his face. Charlie discussed the conundrum with party officials, and they advised having a go at the local Lib-Dem council. Local councillors were often unpopular, so if he could build up a bit of momentum against them, some of the shit might just stick to Localbloke.
Charlie set about his task with gusto. He had to phrase his letters very carefully at first, because in the early days, being an outsider, he didn't know shit from shite where local politics and the local area were concerned. A few locals rumbled him straightaway, but his letters were so tediously dull that most people just ignored him and hoped he'd just go away. As the months turned to years he became bolder, and began referring to 'the many years of Lib-Dem mismanagement', implying that he had lived in Westphalia-on-Sea a lot longer than he actually had. He lost the 2005 election, but he decided to stick around and have one more go at getting on the Westminster gravy train. Yes, he could spend another couple of years telling any Westphalian that would listen how Baghdad was better than this place; his only fear was that as he ran the place down no-one would ask him the really tricky question, namely 'why had he moved to this dismal shithole in the first place?'
So dear readers, this explains why our intrepid Mayor, Dr Pangloss, had such a vocal supporter in Charlie Windsor.
Chapter 17 In which we learn the political history of Westphalia-on-Sea
Some readers may now be wondering how the character of Charlie Windsor suddenly came to appear in Westphalia-on-Sea. 'Where did he come from and why is he here?' I hear you ask. All valid questions which will be answered in good time, but first a little political history is necessary.
Once upon a time back in the sixties and seventies the people of Westphalia-on-Sea lived in a glorious socio-economic bubble. There were fish in the sea, tourists aplenty, and work for all who wanted it. There were no ethnic minorities, and no-one had to go down a mine or work in the steel industry, or make cars on a production-line, or inhale cotton dust for eight hours a day. Indeed, if Pangloss had been around at the time he would certainly have called it the best of all possible worlds. One consequence of this blissful paradise was that the people of Westphalia-on-Sea became very Conservative, with a big 'C'. In a nutshell, the vast majority believed that politics was best left to people with sensible haircuts who had been to private schools and said 'lavatory' instead of 'toilet'. To make it easier for voters to make a sensible choice, these people were also given knighthoods, so it was clear where you should put your cross on the ballot paper. So it was then, that the MP for Westphalia-on-Sea for many years was Sir Bufton Tufton.
Even as council tax riots began breaking out around the country, and Britain became a kind of off-shore American nuclear base, Westphalia-on-Sea remained a glorious shade of blue. Eventually Sir Bufton Tufton retired, and was replaced by the dashing James Rupertson. He was a real jet-setter, too suave and sophisticated for Westphalia-on-Sea really, so he could hardly be blamed for spending very little time there. He also found the Westphalians a rather disagreeable bunch, so he spent most of his time writing spy stories instead of dealing with their problems. He was probably not the most conscientious of MPs, but he looked rather dashing and spoke very nicely, so the Westphalians were more than grateful - after all, they reasoned, in some parts of the country the people were represented by men with beards and northern accents. When Mrs Thatcher stockpiled imported coal and then began closing most of the north of England, and then began selling off every asset the country had, some people thought the Westphalians would finally take the hint, but no; it was beginning to look as if a bladder on a stick would be returned to Parliament with the best wishes of the people of Westphalia-on-Sea as long as it was sporting a blue rosette. In fact it was only after the Tories lost an estimated £3.4 billion of everybody's money on Black Wednesday that the Westphalians began to think it might just be time to stop voting for them.
At long last the Tory stranglehold over Westphalia-on-Sea was broken in 1997 when James Rupertson was defeated by his Lib-Dem rival, Brian Localbloke. The Tories were mortified, especially as they were beaten by just 12 votes. This was the absolute beauty of democracy in action. The Tories could understand losing marginal seats in the Midlands, but Westphalia-on-Sea? - it was unthinkable. Oh well, it was just a blip, and they would win the seat back at the next election. In the meantime Brian Localbloke duly went about his business at Westminster, held regular surgeries around the Cote de Westphalia and dealt with the problems of his constituents as quickly and efficiently as possible. At the next election in 2001 the Tories put up their own local man, but the people of Westphalia-on-Sea were having none of it - Brian Localbloke saw his majority go up to about 6,000. Now the Tories were heading for meltdown - their slapheaded baby-faced leader resigned the next day before most people had had their breakfast.
A new slaphead was drafted in to lead the Tories. There could be no room for complacency now; they must be focused. Westphalia-on-Sea was a target seat for the next election, but the local Conservatives couldn't produce anyone who could walk and chew gum at the same time, let alone win an election. Their only viable tactic was to parachute in a candidate from elsewhere, and that man was Charlie Windsor.
Once upon a time back in the sixties and seventies the people of Westphalia-on-Sea lived in a glorious socio-economic bubble. There were fish in the sea, tourists aplenty, and work for all who wanted it. There were no ethnic minorities, and no-one had to go down a mine or work in the steel industry, or make cars on a production-line, or inhale cotton dust for eight hours a day. Indeed, if Pangloss had been around at the time he would certainly have called it the best of all possible worlds. One consequence of this blissful paradise was that the people of Westphalia-on-Sea became very Conservative, with a big 'C'. In a nutshell, the vast majority believed that politics was best left to people with sensible haircuts who had been to private schools and said 'lavatory' instead of 'toilet'. To make it easier for voters to make a sensible choice, these people were also given knighthoods, so it was clear where you should put your cross on the ballot paper. So it was then, that the MP for Westphalia-on-Sea for many years was Sir Bufton Tufton.
Even as council tax riots began breaking out around the country, and Britain became a kind of off-shore American nuclear base, Westphalia-on-Sea remained a glorious shade of blue. Eventually Sir Bufton Tufton retired, and was replaced by the dashing James Rupertson. He was a real jet-setter, too suave and sophisticated for Westphalia-on-Sea really, so he could hardly be blamed for spending very little time there. He also found the Westphalians a rather disagreeable bunch, so he spent most of his time writing spy stories instead of dealing with their problems. He was probably not the most conscientious of MPs, but he looked rather dashing and spoke very nicely, so the Westphalians were more than grateful - after all, they reasoned, in some parts of the country the people were represented by men with beards and northern accents. When Mrs Thatcher stockpiled imported coal and then began closing most of the north of England, and then began selling off every asset the country had, some people thought the Westphalians would finally take the hint, but no; it was beginning to look as if a bladder on a stick would be returned to Parliament with the best wishes of the people of Westphalia-on-Sea as long as it was sporting a blue rosette. In fact it was only after the Tories lost an estimated £3.4 billion of everybody's money on Black Wednesday that the Westphalians began to think it might just be time to stop voting for them.
At long last the Tory stranglehold over Westphalia-on-Sea was broken in 1997 when James Rupertson was defeated by his Lib-Dem rival, Brian Localbloke. The Tories were mortified, especially as they were beaten by just 12 votes. This was the absolute beauty of democracy in action. The Tories could understand losing marginal seats in the Midlands, but Westphalia-on-Sea? - it was unthinkable. Oh well, it was just a blip, and they would win the seat back at the next election. In the meantime Brian Localbloke duly went about his business at Westminster, held regular surgeries around the Cote de Westphalia and dealt with the problems of his constituents as quickly and efficiently as possible. At the next election in 2001 the Tories put up their own local man, but the people of Westphalia-on-Sea were having none of it - Brian Localbloke saw his majority go up to about 6,000. Now the Tories were heading for meltdown - their slapheaded baby-faced leader resigned the next day before most people had had their breakfast.
A new slaphead was drafted in to lead the Tories. There could be no room for complacency now; they must be focused. Westphalia-on-Sea was a target seat for the next election, but the local Conservatives couldn't produce anyone who could walk and chew gum at the same time, let alone win an election. Their only viable tactic was to parachute in a candidate from elsewhere, and that man was Charlie Windsor.
Chapter 16 In which Pangloss gets a somewhat mixed reception at Westphalia United
Reading the paper over the next few days after the big presentation it appeared that Pangloss's worst fears were being realised. The Westphalia Express had devoted several pages to the 'city' idea, but the key phrases, now reported in black and white without the high-tech light show, all seemed utterly bonkers. The worst thing about it though, was that it was so obviously a lot of nonsense interwoven with overblown phrases which stated what was already common knowledge. Each day there was another letter from outraged locals who were sick to death of their money being wasted on such a grand scale. Pangloss's mood was getting blacker by the hour. He decided to call Charlie Windsor; he had been so upbeat the last time Pangloss had seen him he might be able to cheer him up now.
'Oh, for goodness sake, said Charlie, after listening to Pangloss's tale of woe, buck up old man. Let's get some perspective on this. How many letters are there in the paper about this? About two a day. The rest of the Letters' Page is taken up with the usual moans about Europe, thanks for those who gave so generously to the latest charity appeal and thanks to the person who helped the old lady when she dropped her purse in Sainsburys. These letter-writing lefties might have a bee in their collective bonnet, but they've got no real power. Two small letters buried on page six does not a revolution make, my friend. Now look at the positives: you have a fortnightly column with your picture at the top, your picture is always on at least two different pages and you can issue a press release and it's headline news. No, old Trotsky in the Kremlin up on Shagwell Hill and his mates haven't got a prayer. It's time for a bit of PMA, old boy.'
'Pre-Menstrual Activity?' Pangloss asked.
'Positive Mental Attitude. Think like a winner, and you'll be a winner.
Pangloss put the phone down and considered what Charlie had said. Yes, it did seem to make sense - he was the mayor, and he held all the cards. After all, no-one had really batted an eyelid when he hired those consultants. And let's not forget, he had been voted in. The people of Westphalia-on-Sea had asked him to represent them. All right, as percentages go, seven wasn't great, but he wasn't going to be meek. He would go on a charm offensive, get out and mingle with the great unwashed. But where would he start? Walking through the town? No that would be no good - just a few fat chavs waddling in and out of mobile phone shops. And then people would accost him with tedious stories about traffic wardens and rubbish, and why are there buses driving through a pedestrianised area? No, the town wasn't a good idea. He folded the paper and was about to put it down when he noticed the back page. Pangloss wasn't a football fan, but according to the article it seemed that Westphalia United were doing rather well. Maybe this was just the opportunity Pangloss was looking for. The chance to associate himself with something positive happening in the town, and meet a large group of locals all at once. Yes, he would phone them straight away.
'Hello, Westphalia United? This is the Mayor. Could I speak to the manager please.'
'OK, I'll put you through.'
'Hello, Ron Truckle,' said a rather gruff voice at the end of the line.
'Mr Truckle, it's Dr Pangloss, the Mayor. I have a space in my diary this afternoon, so thought I'd offer you my services and come and present the cup at the match this afternoon.'
'What cup?'
'Aren't you playing for a cup?'
'No, it's a league game against Steeple Bumstead.'
'Well, what do you win at the end of that?'
'Three points, if we're lucky.'
'Well, I'll present those then.'
'You don't present points. Oh, look, this is a wind up isn't? Is that you Colin?' said Truckle, starting to laugh.
'I assure you I'm serious Mr Truckle. Could I come and shoot a goal then, or meet the players? Maybe I could bully-off?'
'Look, we won't really have time for that.'
'I am the Mayor, you know.'
'Now listen here. I don't care if you're the Queen of bloody Sheba. You're not interfering with my pre-match preparations.'
'Is there perhaps someone else there I could talk to?' asked Pangloss, changing his tone a little.
After further discussion with a nice girl in the office it was agreed that Pangloss would pick the winning raffle ticket in the half-time draw. Pangloss arrived promptly and was greatly interested by all that went on, particularly the singing. Apparently the cafe had run out of pies, and one section of the crowd wanted to know where they had gone. They seemed to suspect a large steward had eaten them. As kick-off time approached the announcer read out the Westphalia United team: 'In goal, Tom Pearce. At the back Bill Brewer, Jan Stewer, Peter Gurney and Peter Davey. In midfield Daniel Whiddon, Harry Hawk and Tom Cobley. Up front, Cuthbert, Dibble and Grub. On the bench, Williams, Burfitt, Courtenay and Phillips. After each player's name was read out the crowd gave an appreciative cheer. Yes, thought Pangloss, that's what I need, a little public show of affection, something to give me a boost, and demonstrate that there are plenty of people out there who agree with what I'm doing and like the way I'm doing it. These people may be revolting foul-mouthed working class football oiks, but at least they're not bloody lefties and moaning Victor Meldrew types. Feelgood factor, here we come at last.
Pangloss had to admit the match was quite exciting. He wasn't sure who was running towards each goal, but by half-time the lady next to him assured him that Westphalia were winning. Perfect thought Pangloss. I'll just pop down and get my standing ovation as the town's elected civic leader, and he made his way down on to the pitch.
The young lady from the club office shouted into the microphone: 'And here to pick the winning ticket and present the prize money is your mayor, Dr Pangloss!' Her voice rose at the end, which was a subtle hint for the crowd to cheer.
'Boo! boo! The crowd shouted with one voice. Boo! BOO!'
Pangloss's face took on the colour of a slapped arse, and he smiled the uncomfortable smile of someone trying to ignore three and a half-thousand people booing them. The Steeple Bumstead fans must have thought it was hilarious.
'Goodness me, he said to the girl afterwards. Football fans, eh? They do have a jolly sense of humour.'
'Yes, agreed the girl. we haven't had that kind of reaction since the last owner was here. And you probably need the skin of a rhino in your job - what did you say you do again?'
'Oh, it doesn't matter, said Pangloss, it's really not that important now.'
'OK, said the girl. See you next time, then?'
'Hmm, yes, maybe.' replied Pangloss.
'Oh, for goodness sake, said Charlie, after listening to Pangloss's tale of woe, buck up old man. Let's get some perspective on this. How many letters are there in the paper about this? About two a day. The rest of the Letters' Page is taken up with the usual moans about Europe, thanks for those who gave so generously to the latest charity appeal and thanks to the person who helped the old lady when she dropped her purse in Sainsburys. These letter-writing lefties might have a bee in their collective bonnet, but they've got no real power. Two small letters buried on page six does not a revolution make, my friend. Now look at the positives: you have a fortnightly column with your picture at the top, your picture is always on at least two different pages and you can issue a press release and it's headline news. No, old Trotsky in the Kremlin up on Shagwell Hill and his mates haven't got a prayer. It's time for a bit of PMA, old boy.'
'Pre-Menstrual Activity?' Pangloss asked.
'Positive Mental Attitude. Think like a winner, and you'll be a winner.
Pangloss put the phone down and considered what Charlie had said. Yes, it did seem to make sense - he was the mayor, and he held all the cards. After all, no-one had really batted an eyelid when he hired those consultants. And let's not forget, he had been voted in. The people of Westphalia-on-Sea had asked him to represent them. All right, as percentages go, seven wasn't great, but he wasn't going to be meek. He would go on a charm offensive, get out and mingle with the great unwashed. But where would he start? Walking through the town? No that would be no good - just a few fat chavs waddling in and out of mobile phone shops. And then people would accost him with tedious stories about traffic wardens and rubbish, and why are there buses driving through a pedestrianised area? No, the town wasn't a good idea. He folded the paper and was about to put it down when he noticed the back page. Pangloss wasn't a football fan, but according to the article it seemed that Westphalia United were doing rather well. Maybe this was just the opportunity Pangloss was looking for. The chance to associate himself with something positive happening in the town, and meet a large group of locals all at once. Yes, he would phone them straight away.
'Hello, Westphalia United? This is the Mayor. Could I speak to the manager please.'
'OK, I'll put you through.'
'Hello, Ron Truckle,' said a rather gruff voice at the end of the line.
'Mr Truckle, it's Dr Pangloss, the Mayor. I have a space in my diary this afternoon, so thought I'd offer you my services and come and present the cup at the match this afternoon.'
'What cup?'
'Aren't you playing for a cup?'
'No, it's a league game against Steeple Bumstead.'
'Well, what do you win at the end of that?'
'Three points, if we're lucky.'
'Well, I'll present those then.'
'You don't present points. Oh, look, this is a wind up isn't? Is that you Colin?' said Truckle, starting to laugh.
'I assure you I'm serious Mr Truckle. Could I come and shoot a goal then, or meet the players? Maybe I could bully-off?'
'Look, we won't really have time for that.'
'I am the Mayor, you know.'
'Now listen here. I don't care if you're the Queen of bloody Sheba. You're not interfering with my pre-match preparations.'
'Is there perhaps someone else there I could talk to?' asked Pangloss, changing his tone a little.
After further discussion with a nice girl in the office it was agreed that Pangloss would pick the winning raffle ticket in the half-time draw. Pangloss arrived promptly and was greatly interested by all that went on, particularly the singing. Apparently the cafe had run out of pies, and one section of the crowd wanted to know where they had gone. They seemed to suspect a large steward had eaten them. As kick-off time approached the announcer read out the Westphalia United team: 'In goal, Tom Pearce. At the back Bill Brewer, Jan Stewer, Peter Gurney and Peter Davey. In midfield Daniel Whiddon, Harry Hawk and Tom Cobley. Up front, Cuthbert, Dibble and Grub. On the bench, Williams, Burfitt, Courtenay and Phillips. After each player's name was read out the crowd gave an appreciative cheer. Yes, thought Pangloss, that's what I need, a little public show of affection, something to give me a boost, and demonstrate that there are plenty of people out there who agree with what I'm doing and like the way I'm doing it. These people may be revolting foul-mouthed working class football oiks, but at least they're not bloody lefties and moaning Victor Meldrew types. Feelgood factor, here we come at last.
Pangloss had to admit the match was quite exciting. He wasn't sure who was running towards each goal, but by half-time the lady next to him assured him that Westphalia were winning. Perfect thought Pangloss. I'll just pop down and get my standing ovation as the town's elected civic leader, and he made his way down on to the pitch.
The young lady from the club office shouted into the microphone: 'And here to pick the winning ticket and present the prize money is your mayor, Dr Pangloss!' Her voice rose at the end, which was a subtle hint for the crowd to cheer.
'Boo! boo! The crowd shouted with one voice. Boo! BOO!'
Pangloss's face took on the colour of a slapped arse, and he smiled the uncomfortable smile of someone trying to ignore three and a half-thousand people booing them. The Steeple Bumstead fans must have thought it was hilarious.
'Goodness me, he said to the girl afterwards. Football fans, eh? They do have a jolly sense of humour.'
'Yes, agreed the girl. we haven't had that kind of reaction since the last owner was here. And you probably need the skin of a rhino in your job - what did you say you do again?'
'Oh, it doesn't matter, said Pangloss, it's really not that important now.'
'OK, said the girl. See you next time, then?'
'Hmm, yes, maybe.' replied Pangloss.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Posts
